1   OF   RUSTIC 


LANDSCAPE 


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WITH    PORTRAIT    AND 
THIRTY   ENGRAVINGS 


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GEORGE  HOLMES  HOWISON 


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PICTURES   OF   RUSTIC 

LANDSCAPE 


BIRKET    FOSTER 


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PICTURES   OF  RUSTIC 

LANDSCAPE 


BY  —':..;: 

BIRKET  FOSTER 

// 

WITH   PASSAGES    IN    PROSE    AND    VERSE 
SELECTED    BY 

JOHN    DAVIDSON 

AUTHOR   OF  'BALLADS  AND  SONGS' 


WITH    PORTRAIT   AND   THIRTY   ENGRAVINGS 


NEW   YORK 

LONGMANS,   GREEN   AND   CO. 
AND   LONDON 

MDCCCXCV 


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INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 

T  N  selecting  passages  of  prose  and  verse  to  escort 
Mr.  Birket  Foster's  *  Pictures  of  Rustic  Land- 
scape,' two  considerations  among  others  were  con- 
stantly present : — the  importance  of  variety,  and  the 
necessity  of  a  lax  correspondence  between  the  letter- 
press and  the  engravings. 

The  latter  consideration  suggests  the  remark,  that, 
unless  the  one  is  engaged  in  what  is  justly  regarded 
as  the  inferior  employment  of  illustrating  the  other, 
the  artist  in  black  and  white  seldom  depicts  landscape 
with  an  eye  to  the  same  effects  and  with  appreciation 
of  the  same  details  as  commend  themselves  to  the 
artist  in  words.  Nevertheless  the  reader  and  spec- 
tator will  find  remarkable  instances  of  close  agree- 
ment even  in  minor  points  between  several  of  the 
pictures  and  the  descriptions  in  their  attendant 
passages,  and  always,  of  course,  a  definite  connection 
of  some  kind. 


849326 


X  INTRODUCTORY    NOTE. 

The  general  purpose  in  making  these  selections 
was  not  to  provide  a  descriptive  catalogue,  but  to 
present  in  an  anthology  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of 
some  lovers  of  the  country  and  of  country  life. 

JOHN    DAVIDSON. 
Jtme,  i8q5. 


For  their  permission  to  include  certain  passages  which  are  copy- 
right, thanks  are  due  to  the  following  authors  and  publishers : — to 
Messrs.  Macmillan  for  the  extracts  from  Matthew  Arnold's  Scholar- 
Gipsy  and  from  Tennyson's  '  Miller's  Daughter ' ;  to  Messrs.  Long- 
man for  the  extract  from  Richard  Jefferies' '  Field  and  Hedgerow ' ; 
to  Messrs.  W.  Blackwood  &  Sons  for  the  extract  from  George 
Eliot's  '  Felix  Holt ' ;  to  Messrs.  Seeley  &  Co.  for  the  extract  from 
P.  G.  Hamerton's  *  Unknown  River ' ;  to "  Mr.  Joseph  Pennell  and 
Mr.  Fisher  Unwin  for  the  extract  from  'The  Stream  of  Pleasure'; 
to  Mr.  W.  Fraser  Rae  for  the  extract  from  M.  Taine's  '  Notes  on 
England ' ;  to  Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  for  the  extracts  from 
John  Burroughs,  R.  Grant  White,  and  Emerson;  and  to  Messrs. 
Chatto  &  Windus  and  Mr.  C.  Baxter  for  ths  extract  from  R.  L. 
Stevenson's  'Virginibus  Puerisque.' 


CONTENTS. 


At  the  Brookside i 

'  A  water-ousel  with  white  breast  rises  and  flies  on ;  again 
disturbed,  he  makes  a  circle,  and  returns  to  the  stream  behind. 
On  the  moist  earth  there  is  the  print  of  a  hare's  pad  ;  here  is 
a  foxglove  out  in  flower.' 

Summer  in  Somerset  .         .      Richard  Jefferies        5 

Building  the  Hay-rick    .        .        .        .       .        .        9 

'  On  the  skirts  of  the  common  a  farmer  had  almost  com- 
pleted a  great  haystack.' 

A  Suburban  Tour     .         .         .  John  Davidson       13 

The  Gleaners  at  the  Stile   .        .       .       .       .17 

'You  may  dally  as  long  as  you  like  by  the  roadside.' 

Walking  Tours.         .        .    Robert  Lotiis  Stevensoft       21 
The  Little  Anglers 25 

*  Venator  :  .  .  .  .  and  let  the  blessing  of  St.  Peter's 
Master  be  mine. 

PiscATOR  :  And  upon  all  that  are  lovers  of  virtue,  and 
dare  trust  in  his  providence,  and  be  quiet,  and  go 
a-Angling. — "Study  to  be  quiet.'" 

The  Grateful  Anglers        .        .         .    Izaak  Walton       29 
The  Dipping  Place    .        .        .        .        .        .        .33 

'It  occurred  to  me  clearly  for  the  first  time  that  the  river 
came  from  far  and  went  yet  farther,  that  it  was  not  confined 
to  the  fields  about  my  house,  and  that  this  little  scene  was 
not  a  solitary  gem,  but  one  only  of  a  thousand  links  in  a  long 
chain  of  various  and  unimagined  beauty,' 

The  Unknown  River  Philip  Gilbert  Hamerton       37 


xii  CONTENTS. 


['AGE 


The  Wood-wain 41 

'  In  an  opening  of  the  woods,' 

The  Abbot's  Ways    .                 .         Thomas  Carlyle      45 
The  Lock 49 

'I  was  nervous  about  our  first  lock.' 

The  First  Lock          .         •         .     Elizabeth  Pennell      53 
The  Smithy 57 

*  There  was  the  pleasant  tinkle  of  the  blacksmith's  anvil, 
the  patient  cart-horses  waiting  at  his  door.' 

Stage-coach  Days      .         .         .         .     George  Eliot      61 
The  Farm-yard 65 

.  .   .    "tis  not  th'  extent 
Of  Land  makes  life,  but  sweet  content.' 

The  Country  Life      .         .  Robert  Herrick      69 

The  Old  Chair-mender  at  the  Cottage  Door.      73 

*  England  is  like  a  seat  by  the  chimney-corner,  and  is  as 
redolent  of  human  occupancy  and  domesticity.' 

England     .         .         .         .         .       John  Burroughs      yy 
The  Hay-field  81 

'  In  the  foreground  was  a  wagon  piled  with  hay,  surrouuded 
by  the  Farmer  and  his  fine  family, — some  pitching,  some 
loading,  some  raking  after,  all  intent  on  their  pleasant 
business.' 

Ilay-carrying      .         .         .     Mary  Russell  Mitford      85 
The  Green  Lane 89 

'Give. me  the  clear  blue  sky  over  my  head,  and  the  green 
turf  beneath  my  feet,  a  winding  road  before  me,  and  a  three 
hours'  march  to  dinner — and  then  to  thinking ! ' 

On  Going  a  Journey         .         .        William  Hazlitt      93 
The  Wind-mill 97 

'  A  mill  stood  up  forlorn,  its  arms  shivering  idly  in  the 
wind. ' 

Among  the  Chilterns      .        .          John  Davidson       loi 
Old  Cottages    105 

'These  humble  dwellings  remind  the  contemplative  spec- 
tator of  a  production  of  Nature.' 

Lake  Dwellings        .  William  Wordsworth       109 


CONTENTS.  xiii 


rAGE 


Cows  IN  THE  Pool 113 

'  Hollows  througli  which  swollen  yellowish  streams  meander, 
dank  meadows  wherein  fat  kine  browse  and  ruminate.' 

English  Landscape.         .         .         .     Henri  Taine       117 
Donkeys  on  the  Heath 121 

'His  good,  rough,  native,  pine-apple  coating.' 

The  Ass Charles  Lamb       125 

The  Cottage  on  the  Beach  .       .       .     *  .       .129 

'England  is  anchored  at  the  side  of  Europe,  and  right  in 
the  heart  of  the  modern  world.' 

England    ....     Ralph  Waldo  Emerson       133 
At  the  Cottage  Door 137 

'  Let  us  once  more  see  lords  and  gentlemen  beloved  by  the 
common  people ;  once  more  see  happy  cottages. ' 

-    Sturges  Bourne's  Bills     .         .        William  Cobbett       141 
A  Winter  Piece 145 

'  I  do  not  care  much  for  snow  in  town  ;  but  in  the  country 
it  is  ever  a  marvel.' 

Winter Alexander  Smith       149 

The  Watering-place 153 

'  It  is  a  little  sheltered  scene,  retiring,  as  it  were,  from  the 
village  ....  with  a  great  pond  in  one  corner. ' 

Violeting  .         .         .         .     Mary  Russell  Mitford       157 
At  Sunset 161 

'That  long,  slow-deepening  twilight   through  which  the 
day  in  England  lapses  gently  into  darkness.' 

The  English  Climate       .      Richard  Grant   White       165 
The  Reapers 169 

•  The  reapers,  that  with  whetted  sickles  stand. 
Gathering  the  falling  ears  i'  th'  other  hand.* 

An  Eclogue  to  Master  Jonson       Thomas  Randolph       173 
The  Country  Inn 177 

*  The  incognito  of  an  inn  is  one  of  its  striking  privileges — 
— "lord  of  one's  self,  uncumbered  with  a  name." ' 

On  Taking  one's  ease  at  one's  inn     William  Hazlitt       181 


xiv  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Under  the  Moonbeams  .        .        .        .        .       ,      185 

'  I  could  spend  whole  days  and  moonlight  nights  in  feeding 
upon  a  lovely  prospect.' 

The  Passion  for  Landscape  Drawing  William  Cowper       1 89 
The  Village  Church 193 

'  The  present  building  has  no  pretensions  to  antiquity,  and 
is,  as  I  suppose,  of  no  earlier  date  than  the  beginning  of  the 
reign  of  Henry  VH.' 

Selborne  Church      .         .         .         .    Gilbert  White       197 
At  Sea  and  on  Shore .201 

'And  surely  methinketh  we  cannot  better  bestow  our 
time  on  the  Sea,  than  in  aduise  how  to  behaue  our  selues 
Mhen  we  come  to  ye  shore.' 

For  Travellers John  Lyly       205 

The  Stepping-stones       .       .       .    ■    .       .       .      209 

'  Moist,  bright,  and  green,  the  landscape  laughs  around, 
Full  swell  the  woods ;  their  very  music  wakes, 
Mix'd  in  wild  concert  with  the  warbling  brooks 
Increas'd.'  .... 

April  Weather                  .         .        James  Thomson       213 
The  Market-cart 217 

'  The  footpath  faintly  mark'd,  the  horse-track  wild, 
And  formidable  length  of  plashy  lane, 
(Prized  avenues  ere  others  had  been  shaped 
Or  easier  links  connecting  place  with  place,) 
Have  vanish'd.'  .... 

Changes  in  the  Country         William  Wordsworth       221 
The  Ferry-boat 225 

'At  the  Ferry.' 

The  Scholar  Gipsy.         .         .       Matthew  Arnold      229 
The  Water  Mill 233 

'  I  loved  the  brimming  wave  that  swam 
Thro'  quiet  meadows  round  the  mill, 
The  sleepy  pool  above  the  dam, 
The  pool  beneath  it  never  still.' 

The  Miller's  Daughter     .         .  Lord  Tennyson       237 


AT    THE    BROOKSIDE. 


'A  water-ousel  with  white  breast  rises  and  flies  on;  again  dis- 
turbed, he  makes  a  circle,  and  returns  to  the  stream  behind.  On 
the  moist  earth  there  is  the  print  of  a  hare's  pad  ;  here  is  a  fox-glove 
out  in  flower.' 


SUMMER    IN    SOMERSET. 

T)  LACK  BIRD    and   thrush   commence  to  sing  as 

the  heavy  heat  decreases ;    the   bloom   on   the 

apples  trees   is  loose   now,   and   the   blackbird  as  he 

springs    from    the    bough     shakes     down     flakes    of 

blossom. 

Towards  even  a  wind  moves  among  the  length- 
ening shadows,  and  my  footsteps  involuntarily  seek 
the  glen,  where  a  streamlet  trickles  down  over  red 
flat  stones  which  resound  musically  as  the  water 
strikes  them.  Ferns  are  growing  so  thickly  in  the 
hedge  that  soon  it  will  seem  composed  of  their  fronds  ; 
the  first  June  rose  hangs  above  their  green  tips.  A 
water-ousel  with  white  breast  rises  and  flies  on  ;  again 
disturbed,  he  makes  a  circle,  and  returns  to  the  stream 
behind.  On  the  moist  earth  there  is  the  print  of  a 
hare's  pad ;  here  is  a  foxglove  out  in  flower ;  and  now 
as  the  incline  rises  heather  thickens  on  the  slope. 
Sometimes  we  wander  beside  the  streamlet  which 
goes  a  mile    into    the   coombe — the   shadow  is  deep 


6  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

and  cool  in  the  vast  groove  of  the  hill,  the  shadow 
accumulates  there,  and  is  pressed  by  its  own  weight — 
up  slowly  as  far  as  the  'sog,'  or  peaty  place  where  the 
spring  rises,  and  where  the  sundew  grows.  Some- 
\tirnes:  clfmbing  steep  and  rocky  walls — scarce  sprinkled 
"wiith  '^rass-r-we  pause  every  other  minute  to  look  down 
on  The  gVeat  valley  which  reaches  across  to  Dunkery. 
The  horned  sheep,  which  are  practically  wild,  like  wild 
creatures,  have  worn  out  holes  for  themselves  to  lie  in 
beside  the  hill.  If  resolution  is  strong,  we  move 
through  the  dark  heather  (soon  to  be  purple),  start- 
ling the  heath-poults,  or  black  game,  till  at  last  the 
Channel  opens,  and  the  far-distant  Flat  and  Steep 
Holms  lie,  as  it  looks,  afloat  on  the  dim  sea.  This  is 
labour  enough  ;  stern  indeed  must  be  the  mind  that 
could  work  at  summer's  noon  in  Somerset,  when  the 
apple  vineyards  slumber ;  when  the  tall  foxgloves 
stand  in  the  heavy  heat  and  the  soft  air  warms  the 
deepest  day-shadow  so  that  nothing  is  cool  to  the 
touch  but  the  ferns.  Is  there  anything  so  good  as  to 
do  nothing  ? 

Fame  travels  slowly  up  these  breathless  hills,  and 
pauses  overcome  in  the  heated  hollow  lanes.  A 
famous  wit  of  European  reputation,  when  living, 
resided  in  Somerset.  A  traveller  one  day  chancing 
to  pass  through  the  very  next  parish  inquired  of  a 
local  man  if  somebody  called  Sydney  Smith  did  not 
once  live  in  that  neighbourhood.  '  Yes,'  was  the 
reply,    '  I've    heard   all   about    Sydney  Smith  ;  I   can 


SUMMER    IN    SOMERSET.  7 

tell  you.  He  was  a  highwayman,  and  was  hung  on 
that  hill  there,'  He  would  have  shown  the  very 
stump  of  the  gallows-tree  as  proof  positive,  like  Jack 
Cade's  bricks,  alive  in  the  chimney  to  this  day. 

There  really  was  a  highwayman,  however,  whose 
adventures  are  said  to  have  suggested  one  of  the 
characters  in  the  romance  of  '  Lorna  Doone.'  This 
desperate  fellow  had  of  course  his  houses  of  call, 
where  he  could  get  refreshment  safely,  on  the  moors. 
One  bitter  winter's  day  the  robber  sat  down  to  a 
hearty  dinner  in  an  inn  at  Exford.  Placing  his  pistols 
before  him,  he  made  himself  comfortable,  and  ate  and 
drank  his  fill.  By-and-by  an  old  woman  entered,  and 
humbly  took  a  seat  in  a  corner  far  from  the  fire.  In 
time  the  highwayman  observed  the  wretched,  shiver- 
ing creature,  and  of  his  princely  generosity  told  her 
to  come  and  sit  by  the  hearth.  The  old  woman  gladly 
obeyed,  and  crouched  beside  him.  Presently,  as  he 
sat  absorbed  in  his  meal,  his  arms  were  suddenly 
pinioned  from  behind.  The  old  woman  had  him  tight, 
so  that  he  could  not  use  his  weapons,  while  at  a  call 
constables,  who  had  been  posted  about,  rushed  in  and 
secured  him.  The  old  woman  was  in  fact  a  man  in 
disofuise.  A  relation  of  the  thief-taker  still  lives  and 
tells  the  tale.  The  highwayman's  mare,  mentioned  in 
the  novel,  had  been  trained  to  come  at  his  call,  and 
was  so  ungovernable  that  they  shot  her. 

Richard  Jefferies. 


BUILDING   THE    HAY- RICK. 


'On  the  skirts  of  the  common  a  farmer  had  almost  completed 
a  great  haystack.' 


A    SUBURBAN    TOUR. 

T  T  was  nearly  blood  heat  in  the  shade.  Out  of  the 
south-west,  slow,  lambent  blasts  streaked  the 
glowing  air  and  shook  the  scent  from  the  limes  in  the 
Duke's  Avenue  leading  to  Chiswick  House.  Chiswick 
Parish  Church  was  as  hot  as  a  kiln.  In  Chiswick  Mall 
the  old  houses,  sunburned  and  blistered  through  their 
veils  of  jasmine  and  clematis,  opened  all  their  windows 
for  a  breath  of  air.  Chiswick  eyot,  bristling  with 
osiers  like  a  gigantic  green  clothes-brush,  sighed — if  a 
brush  may  be  supposed  to  sigh — stifled  with  scalding 
dust.  The  tepid  Thames  slid  down  its  greasy  channel, 
twisting  and  untwisting  in  surface  eddies  interlinked 
athwart  and  along,  a  dark  ravelled  skein,  cut  by 
thousands  of  keels  and  tangled  by  innumerable  pro- 
pellers, paddles,  oars,  and  dredgers ;  and  the  muddy 
banks,  smooth  and  glossy,  seemed  melting  away  like 
butter — brown  butter,  churned  out  of  the  water  by 
steamers,  barges,  and  rowing  boats.  The  sun  flamed 
in  a  sky  of  molten  turquoise. 


14  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

The  itinerant  crossed  the  Thames  to  visit  the  orchid- 
house  in  Kew  Gardens.  Orchids  have  a  great  fascina- 
tion for  him,  as  for  most  people.  Mysterious  creatures, 
living  mostly  on  dew,  they  are  the  artists  of  the  botanic 
world  ;  their  moods  are  many  and  various  ;•  their 
temperaments  master  them.  Tranquil,  chaotic,  like 
the  great  poet  Carlyle  saw  sitting  among  his  dead 
dogs,  they  never  know  what  they  are  going  to  do  until 
their  flowers  come  forth.  As  Bottom  would  fain  have 
been  everybody,  so  the  orchid  aims  at  being  all  flowers. 
It  is  a  mere  temperament  without  intellect,  and  some- 
times endeavours  to  reproduce  shapes  and  hues  with 
which  it  has  no  native  sympathy. 


The  terrible  temperaments  of  these  tropical  flowers 
began  to  exercise  a  spell  on  the  itinerant,  and  he  was 
glad  to  escape  from  their  sorcery,  and  the  moist  ener- 
vating air  they  breathed.  Outside  the  danger  was 
only  one  of  roasting,  an  operation  which  does  not 
necessarily  destroy  the  shape  ;  in  the  orchid-house  he 
felt  as  if  he  were  about  to  be  stewed  out  of  all  consist- 
ence, and  transformed  into  a  pulpy  plant  growing  on 
a  board.  But  he  was  too  hot  to  walk  immediately  so 
he  took  train  to  Acton.  There  he  found  himself  once 
more  in  a  dreadful  suburban  region  that  seemed  to  be 
limitless,  except  towards  the  east.  .  .  . 

By  Horn  Lane  and  past  Old  Oak  Common  he  came  to 
Willesden  Junction.     Glimpses  of  Middlesex,  wooded 


A    SUBURBAN    TOUR.  15 

and  undulating,  appeared  on  the  left,  stretching  out  to 
the  horizon  and  sweltering  under  the  heat  and  the  haze. 
On  the  skirts  of  the  common  a  farmer  had  almost 
completed  a  great  hay-stack — sixty  feet  high,  he  said. 

'  Is  there  so  much  hay  in  the  world  this  season  ? ' 
asked  the  itinerant. 

*  You  may  well  say  it,'  he  replied.  *  If  you  want  to 
speculate,  buy  hay.  Already  it's  double  the  usual 
price,  and  next  spring  it  will  be  selling  for  its  weight 
in  gold.' 

'  Was  this  stack  all  grown  in  the  neighbourhood  ? ' 

'  Yes  in  these  half-^pzen  fields.' 

They  were  well  within  the  six-mile  radius — Worm- 
wood Scrubs  barely  half-a-mile  away;  and  the  itinerant 
saw,  or  thought  he  saw,  nearer  London  towards  the 
north-east,  the  white  monuments  of  Kensal  Green. 

'  Is  suburban  hay  good  ? '  he  asked. 

'  Smell  it,'  said  the  farmer,  giving  him  a  handful. 

It  had,  indeed,  a  delightful  smell,  like  that  of  new- 
milk  with  the  faintest  aroma  of  spice. 

*  That,'  continued  the  farmer,  '  is  the  best  hay  I  ever 
reaped.  The  dryer  the  season  the  finer  the  hay  ;  but 
that's  no  compensation  for  quantity.  Last  year  I  had 
more  than  three  times  as  much  hay  from  the  same 
fields.  I  required  more  than  half  of  it  myself,  so  I'll 
have  to  buy  fodder  this  year.* 

The  prospect  seemed  to  dismay  him  little,  however. 
He  wished  the  itinerant  a  cheery  good-day,  and  told 
him  to  be  sure  to  come  and  draw  his  stack  and  the  old 


i6  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

farm-house  when  the  former  was  finished.     The  itine- 
rant was  pleased  to  be  mistaken  for  a  painter. 

yohn  Davidson. 


THE   GLEANERS   AT  THE   STILE. 


You  may  dally  as  long  as  you  like  by  the  roadside. 


WALKING   TOURS. 

A  ND  you  would  be  astonished  if  I  were  to  tell  you 
^  all  the  grave  and  learned  heads  that  have  con- 
fessed to  me  that,  when  on  walking  tours,  they  sang — 
and  sang  very  ill — and  had  a  pair  of  red  ears  when,  as 
described  above,  the  inauspicious  peasant  plumped  into 
their  arms  from  round  a  corner.  And  here,  lest  you 
should  think  I  am  exaggerating,  is  Hazlitt's  own  con- 
fession, from  his  essay  On  Going  a  Journey,  which  is 
so  good  that  there  should  be  a  tax  levied  on  all  who 
have  not  read  it : — 

'Give  me  the  clear  blue  sky  over  my  head,'  says 
he,  '  and  thp  green  turf  beneath  my  feet,  a  winding 
road  before  me,  and  a  three  hours'  march  to  dinner — 
and  then  to  thinking !  It  is  hard  if  I  cannot  start 
some  game  on  these  lone  heaths.  I  laugh,  I  run,  I 
leap,   I  sing  for  joy.' 

Bravo  !  After  that  adventure  of  mv  friend  with  the 
policeman,  you  would  not  have  cared,  would  you,  to 
publish   that   in  the  first  person  ?     But   we   have  no 


22  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

bravery  nowadays,  and,  even  in  books,  must  all  pre- 
tend to  be  as  dull  and  foolish  as  our  neighbours.  It 
was  not  so  with  Hazlitt.  And  notice  how  learned  he 
is  (as,  indeed,  throughout  the  essay)  in  the  theory  of 
walking  tours.  He  is  none  of  your  athletic  men  in 
purple  stockings,  who  walk  their  fifty  miles  a  day  : 
three  hours'  march  is  his  ideal.  And  then  he  must 
have  a  winding  road,  the  epicure ! 

Nor  must  I  forget  to  say  a  word  on  bivouacs.  You 
come  to  a  milestone  on  a  hill,  or  some  place  where 
deep  ways  meet  under  trees  ;  and  off  goes  the  knap- 
sack, and  down  you  sit  to  smoke  a  pipe  in  the  shade. 
You  sink  into  yourself,  and  the  birds  come  round  and 
look  at  you  ;  and  your  smoke  dissipates  upon  the  after- 
noon under  the  blue  dome  of  heaven  ;  and  the  sun  lies 
warm  upon  your  feet,  and  the  cool  air  visits  your  neck 
and  turns  aside  your  open  shirt.  If  you  are  not 
happy,  you  must  have  an  evil  conscience.  You  may 
dally  as  long  as  you  like  by  the  roadside.  It  is  almost 
as  if  the  millennium  were  arrived,  when  we  shall  throw 
our  clocks  and  watches  over  the  housetop,  and 
remember  time  and  seasons  no  more.  Not  to  keep 
hours  for  a  lifetime  is,  I  was  going  to  say,  to  live  for 
ever.  You  have  no  idea,  unless  you  have  tried  it,  how 
endlessly  long  is  a  summer's  day,  that  you  measure 
out  only  by  hunger,  and  bring  to  an  end  only  when 
you  are  drowsy.  I  know  a  village  where  there  are 
hardly  any  clocks,  where  no  one  knows  more  of  the 


WALKING    TOURS.  23 

days  of  the  week  than  by  a  sort  of  instinct  for  the 
fete  on  Sunday,  and  where  only  one  person  can  tell 
you  the  day  of  the  month,  and  she  is  generally  wrong ; 
and  if  people  were  aware  how  slow  Time  journeyed  in 
that  village,  and  what  armfuls  of  spare  hours  he  gives, 
over  and  above  the  bargain,  to  its  wise  inhabitants,  I 
believe  there  would  be  a  stampede  out  of  London, 
Liverpool,  Paris,  and  a  variety  of  large  towns,  where 
the  clocks  lose  their  heads,  and  shake  the  hours  out 
each  one  faster  than  the  other,  as  though  they  were  all 
in  a  wager.  And  all  these  foolish  pilgrims  would  each 
bring  his  own  misery  along  with  him,  in  a  w*atch- 
pocket.  It  is  to  be  noticed,  there  were  no  clocks  and 
watches  in  the  much  vaunted  days  before  the  flood. 
It  follows,  of  course,  there  were  no  appointments,  and 
punctuality  was  not  yet  thought  upon.  'Though  ye 
take  from  a  covetous  man  all  his  treasure,'  says 
Milton,  *  he  has  yet  one  jewel  left ;  ye  cannot  deprive 
him  of  his  covetousness.*  And  so  I  would  say  of  a 
modem  man  of  business,  you  may  do  what  you  will  for 
him,  put  him  in  Eden,  give  him  the  elixir  of  life — he 
has  still  a  flaw  at  heart,  he  has  still  his  business 
habits.  Now,  there  is  no  time  when  business  habits 
are  more  mitigated  than  on  a  walking  tour.  And  so 
during  these  halts,  as  I  say,  you  will  feel  almost 
free. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 


THE    LITTLE    ANGLERS. 


'Venator:  ....  and  let  the  blessing  oi  St.  Peter's  Master  be 
with  mine. 

PiscATOR  :  And  upon  all  that  are  lovers  of  virtue,  and  dare  trust 
in  his  providence,  and  be  quiet,  and  go  a- Angling.— "Study  to  be 
quiet." ' 


I 


THE  GRATEFUL  ANGLERS. 

Pisc.  Trust  me.  Scholar,  I  thank  you  heartily  for 
these  verses :  they  be  choicely  good,  and  doubtless 
made  by  a  lover  of  Angling,  Come,  now,  drink  a 
glass  to  me,  and  I  will  requite  you  with  another  very 
good  copy  :  it  is  a  Farewell  to  the  Vanities  of  the 
World,  and  some  say,  written  by  Sir  Harry  Wotton, 
who  I  told  you  was  an  excellent  Angler.  But  let  them 
be  writ  by  whom  they  will,  he  that  writ  them  had  a 
brave  soul,  and  must  needs  be  possessed  with  happy 
thoughts  at  the  time  of  their  composure. 


'  I  would  be  great, — but  that  the  sun  doth  still 
Level  his  rays  against  the  rising  hill : 
I  would  be  high, — but  see  the  proudest  oak 
Most  subject  to  the  rending  thunder-stroke  : 
I  would  be  rich, — but  see  men,  too  unkind, 
Dig  in  the  bow^els  of  the  richest  mind  : 
I  would  be  wise, — but  that  I  often  see 
The  fox  suspected,  whilst  the  ass  goes  free  : 
I  would  be  fair, — but  see  the  fair  and  proud, 
Like  the  bright  sun,  oft  setting  in  a  cloud  : 


30  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

I  would  be  poor, — but  know  the  humble  grass 

Still  trampled  on  by  each  unworthy  ass  : 

Rich,  hated  ;  Wise,  suspected  ;  Scorned  if  poor  ; 

Great,  feared  ;  Fair,  tempted  ;  High,  still  envied  more  : 

I  have  wished  all ;  but  now  I  wish  for  neither ; 

Great,  High,  Rich,  Wise,  nor  Fair  ;  Poor  I'll  be  rather. 

'  Welcome,  pure  thoughts !     Welcome,  ye  silent  groves ! 
These  guests,  these  courts,  my  soul  most  dearly  loves. 
Now  the  winged  people  of  the  sky  shall  sing 
My  cheerful  anthems  to  the  gladsome  spring : 
A  prayer-book  now  shall  be  my  looking-glass, 
In  which  I  will  adore  sweet  Virtue's  face. 
Here  dwell  no  hateful  looks,  no  palace-cares. 
No  broken  vows  dwell  here,  nor  pale-faced  fears  : 
Then  here  I'll  sit,  and  sigh  my  hot  love's  folly, 
And  learn  t'  affect  an  holy  melancholy : 
And  if  Contentment  be  a  stranger,  then 
I'll  ne'er  look  for  it,  but  in  heaven  again.' 


Ven.  Well,  Master,  these  verses  be  worthy  to  keep 
a  room  in  every  man's  memory.  I  thank  you  for 
them ;  and  I  thank  you  for  your  many  instructions, 
which,  God  willing,  I  will  not  forget.  And  as  St. 
Austin,  in  his  Confessions,  Book  IV.  Chap.  3,  com- 
memorates the  kindness  of  his  friend  Verecundus,  for 
lending  him  and  his  companion  a  country-house, 
because  there  they  rested  and  enjoyed  themselves  free 
from  the  troubles  of  the  world  ;  so,  having  had  the 
like  advantage,  both  by  your  conversation  and  the  Art 
you  have  taught  me,  I  ought  ever  to  do  the  like :  for 
indeed,   your   company  and   discourse    have  been   so 


THE    GRATEFUL    ANGLERS.        31 

useful  and  pleasant,  that  I  may  truly  say,  I  have  only 
lived  since.  I  enjoyed  them  and  turned  Angler,  and 
not  before.  Nevertheless,  here  I  must  part  with  you, 
here  in  this  now  sad  place,  where  I  was  so  happy  as 
first  to  meet  you  :  but  I  shall  long  for  the  9th  of  May, 
for  then  I  hope  again  to  enjoy  your  beloved  company 
at  the  appointed  time  and  place.  And  now  I  wish  for 
some  somniferous  potion,  that  might  force  me  to  sleep 
away  the  intermitted  time,  which  will  pass  away  with 
me  as  tediously  as  it  does  with  men  in  sorrow ;  never- 
theless I  will  make  it  as  short  as  I  can,  by  my  hopes 
and  wishes.  And  my  good  Master,  I  will  not  forget 
the  doctrine  which  you  told  me  Socrates  taught  his 
scholars,  that  they  should  not  think  to  be  honored  so 
much  for  being  philosophers,  as  to  honor  philosophy 
by  their  virtuous  lives.  You  advised  me  to  the  like 
concerning  Angling,  and  I  will  endeavour  to  do  so, 
and  to  live  like  those  many  worthy  men,  of  which  you 
made  mention  in  the  former  part  of  your  discourse. 
This  is  my  firm  resolution.  And  as  a  pious  man 
advised  his  friend,  that,  to  beget  mortification,  he 
should  frequent  churches,  and  view  monuments,  and 
charnel-houses,  and  then  and  there  consider,  how 
many  dead  bones  Time  had  piled  up  at  the  gates  of 
Death :  so  when  I  would  beget  content,  and  increase 
confidence  in  the  power,  and  wisdom,  and  providence 
of  Almighty  God,  I  will  walk  the  meadows  by  some 
gliding  stream,  and  there  contemplate  the  lilies  that 
take  no  care,  and  those  very  many  other  various  little 


32    ■  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

living  creatures,  that  are  not  only  created,  but  fed, 
man  knows  not  how,  by  the  goodness  of  the  God  of 
nature,  and  therefore  trust  in  him.  This  is  my 
purpose  ;  and  so,  '  Let  everything  that  hath  breath 
praise  the  Lord '  :  and  let  the  blessing  of  St.  Peter's 
Master  be  with  mine. 

Pisc.  And  upon  all  that  are  lovers  of  virtue,  and 
dare  trust  in  his  providence,  and  be  quiet,  and  go 
a-Analing-. 

'  Study  to  be  quiet.  —  i  Thes.  iv.  ir. 

Izaak   Walton. 


THE    DIPPING    PLACE. 


D 


'  It  occurred  to  me  clearly  for  the  first  time  that  the  river  came 
from  far,  and  went  yet  farther,  that  it  was  not  confined  to  the  fields 
about  my  house,  and  that  this  little  scene  was  not  a  solitary  gem,  but 
one  only  of  a  thousand  links  in  a  long  chain  of  various  and  un- 
imagined  beauty ' 


i! 


i 


THE   UNKNOWN   RIVER. 

"  I  ^HERE  is  no  rest  to  faculties  wearied  by  labour 
like  rest  by  a  quiet  stream,  on  a  beautiful  after- 
noon in  summer.  If  you  distribute  your  work  wisely, 
and  are  fortunate  enough  to  have  work  of  a  kind  that 
may  be  done  at  your  own  hours,  you  will  take  care, 
when  the  days  are  long,  to  reserve  some  considerable 
part  of  the  afternoon  as  sacred  to  utter  idleness,  and  if 
a  quiet  stream  is  within  easy  distance,  there  will  you 
go  and  rest.  Most  men  under  such  circumstances 
take  a  rod  and  fish,  but  it  does  not  always  happen  that 
there  is  anything  which  the  dignity  of  manhood  may 
avow  an  interest  in  catching.  The  man  who  rents  a 
salmon  river  in  Scotland,  or  even  the  Englishman 
whose  trout  stream  is  well  preserved,  may  go  forth 
with  the  implements  of  the  angler  and  a  consciousness 
of  noble  aims.  But  can  anybody  past  boyhood  pretend 
to  take  an  interest  in  catching  minnows,  unless,  indeed, 
he  be  a  Frenchman  who  has  just  landed  2,goujon,  and 
is  vain  of  the  exploit } 


38  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

It  is  curious  how  capable  we  all  are  of  seeing  people 
and  things  every  day  of  our  lives  without  being  once 
prompted  to  ascertain  anything  further  about  them, 
whence  they  come,  whither  they  go,  what  their  past  has 
been,  or  what  may  be  reserved  for  them  in  the  future. 
The  inhabitants  of  great  cities  being  satiated  by  the 
continual  sight  of  innumerable  persons  and  things, 
have  this  indifference  in  the  most  strongly  developed 
form,  but  it  may  be  observed  in  the  country  with 
regard  to  what  is  most  commonly  seen  there.  For 
instance,  brooks  and  streams  are  very  commonly  met 
with  in  all  northern  countries,  and  therefore  very  few 
people  ever  give  a  thought  to  the  geography  of  them, 
or  have  anything  beyond  a  very  vague  and  general 
notion  of  their  course.  The  inhabitants  of  the  region 
through  which  the  stream  passes  usually  know  it  at 
bridges  and  fords,  and  farmers  know  where  it  eats 
away  the  land,  and  where,  in  times  of  flood,  it  is  most 
likely  to  leave  a  deposit  of  sand  and  pebbles  ;  the 
angler,  too,  may  have  followed  it  for  a  few  miles,  and 
some  professional  landscape-painter  or  amateur  may 
have  explored  a  few  of  its  most  picturesque  parts. 
But  no  man  living  knows  the  whole  stream,  and  so 
there  is  always  a  great  mystery  about  it,  and  any  one 
who  cares  to  follow  its  course  faithfully  may  enjoy  all 
the  keen  delights,  and  feel  all  the  unceasing  interest, 
which  belong  to  a  true  exploration. 

In  this  especial  sense  our  little  river  is  indeed  un- 
known, and  as  I  lay  idly  on  its  bank  on  that  bright 


THE    UNKNOWN    RIVER.  39 

autumn  afternoon,  it  occurred  to  me  clearly  for  the 
first  time  that  the  river  came  from  far  and  went  yet 
farther,  that  it  was  not  confined  to  the  fields  about  my 
house,  and  that  this  little  scene  was  not  a  solitary  gem, 
but  one  only  of  a  thousand  links  in  a  long  chain  of 
various  and  unimagined  beauty. 

Why  had  not  this  been  equally  clear  to  me  years 
before  ?  Why  do  we  dream  ever  in  one  place,  or 
travel  by  the  same  weary  old  roads,  when  infinite 
beauty  and  novelty  are  open  to  us  ?  It  is  because  the 
beauty  and  the  novelty  are  so  very  near  to  us  that  we 
miss  them,  and  often  so  cheap  that  our  pitiful  small 
dignity  despises  them  as  something  puerile.  When 
we  are  weary  of  the  monotony  of  life,  and  the  whole 
human  organism  longs  for  the  refreshment  of  change, 
we  would  OTQ  to  the  end  of  the  earth,  and  in  order  to 
defeat  our  purposes  as  completely  as  possible,  carry 
our  habits  with  us.  We  are  accustomed  to  railways 
and  newspapers,  to  bitter  ale  and  sweet  tea,  and  we 
seek  these  things,  and  a  thousand  others  that  habit  has 
rendered  necessary,  wherever  on  earth  we  go.  And 
yet  change  more  refreshing,  and  novelty  more  com- 
plete are  here  within  one  day  of  slowest  travel,  than  in 
journeys  to  Berlin  and  Vienna,  for  the  truest  change 
and  best  novelty  are  not  in  length  of  travel  but  in  the 
abandonment  of  habit,  and  especially  in  the  zest  of 
free  and  personal  discovery. 

P.  G.  Hamerton. 


I 


THE    WOOD -WAIN. 


In  an  opening  of  the  woods. 


,    THE  ABBOT'S  WAYS. 

'  I  "HE  kinds  of  people  Abbot  Samson  liked  worst 
were  these  three :  '  Mendaces,  ebriosi,  verbosi, 
Liars,  drunkards  and  wordy  or  windy  persons  ; ' — not 
good  kinds,  any  of  them !  He  also  much  condemned 
'  persons  given  to  murmur  at  their  meat  or  drink, 
especially  Monks  of  that  disposition.'  We  remark, 
from  the  very  first,  his  strict  anxious  order  to  his 
servants  to  provide  handsomely  for  hospitality,  to 
guard  'above  all  things  that  there  be  no  shabbiness 
'  in  the  matter  of  meat  and  drink  ;  no  look  of  mean 
'  parsimony,  in  novitate  med,  at  the  beginning  of  my 
*  Abbotship ; '  and  to  the  last  he  maintains  a  due 
opulence  of  table  and  equipment  for  others ;  but  he 
is  himself  in  the  highest  degree  indifferent  to  all 
such  things. 

'  Sweet  milk,  honey  and  other  naturally  sweet  kinds 
'  of  food,  were  what  he  preferred  to  eat :  but  he  had 
'this  virtue,'  says  Jocelin,  *he  never  changed  the  dish 
'  (fercultmi)  you   set    before   him,    be   what   it  might. 


46  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

'  Once  when  I,  still  a  novice,  happened  to  be  waiting 

*  table  in  the  refectory,  it  came  into  my  head '  (rogue 
'  that  I  was !)  '  to  try  if  this  were  true  ;  and  I  thought 
'  I  would  place  before  him  a  ferculum  that  would 
'  have  displeased  any  other  person,  the  very  platter 
'  being  black  and  broken.      But  he,  seeing  it,  was  as 

*  one  that  saw  it  not :  and  now  some  little  delay 
'  taking  place,  my  heart  smote  me  that  I  had  done 
'  this ;  and  so,  snatching  up  the  platter  (discus)^  I 
'  changed  both  it  and  its  contents  for  a  better,  and 
'  put  down  that  instead ;  which  emendation  he  was 
'angry  at,  and  rebuked  me  for,' — the  stoical  monastic 
man !  '  For  the  first  seven  years  he  had  commonly 
'  four  sorts  of  dishes  on  his  table ;  afterwards  only 
'  three,  except  it  might  be  presents,  or  venison  from 
'  his  own  parks,  or  fishes  from  his  ponds.  And  if,  at 
•any  time,  he  had  guests  living  in  his  house  at  the 
'  request  of  some  great  person,  or  of  some  friend,  or 
'  had  public  messengers,  or  had  harpers  (citkarcedos), 
'  or  any  one  of  that  sort,  he  took  the  first  opportunity 
'of  shifting  to  another  of  his  Manor-houses,  and  so 
'got  rid  of  such  superfluous  individuals,'  —  very 
prudently,   I  think. 

As  to  his  parks,  of  these,  in  the  general  repair  of 
buildings,  general  improvement  and  adornment  of  the 
St.  Edmund  Domains,  '  he  had  laid  out  several,  and 
'  stocked  them  with  animals,  retaining  a  proper  hunts- 
'  man  with  hounds  :  and,  if  any  guest  of  great  quality 
'  were  there,  our  Lord  Abbot  with  his  Monks  would 


THE    abbot's    ways.  47 

'sit  in  some  opening  of  the  woods,  and  see  the  dogs 
'  run ;  but  he  himself  never  meddled  with  hunting, 
'  that  I  saw. ' 

'  In  an  opening  of  the  woods ; ' — for  the  country 
was  still  dark  with  wood  in  those  days  ;  and  Scotland 
itself  still  rustled  shaggy  and  leafy,  like  a  damp  black 
American  Forest,  with  cleared  spots  and  spaces  here 
and  there.  Dryasdust  advances  several  absurd  hypo- 
theses as  to  the  insensible  but  almost  total  disappear- 
ance of  these  woods  ;  the  thick  wreck  of  which  now 
lies  as  peat,  sometimes  with  huge  heart-of-oak  timber- 
log;s  imbedded  in  it,  on  many  a  height  and  hollow. 
The  simplest  reason  doubtless  is,  that  by  increase  of 
husbandry,  there  was  increase  of  cattle  ;  increase  of 
hunger  for  green  spring  food ;  and  so,  more  and 
more,  the  new  seedlings  got  yearly  eaten  out  in  April ; 
and  the  old  trees,  having  only  a  certain  length  of  life 
in  them,  died  gradually,  no  man  heeding  it,  and 
disappeared  into  peat. 

A  sorrowful  waste  of  noble  wood  and  umbrage! 
Yes, — but  a  very  common  one ;  the  course  of  most 
things  in  this  world.  Monachism  itself,  so  rich  and 
fruitful  once,  is  now  all  rotted  into  peat ;  lies  sleek 
and  buried, — and  a  most  feeble  bog-grass  of  Dilet- 
tantism all  the  crop  we  reap  from  it!  That  also 
was  frightful  waste  ;  perhaps  among  the  saddest  our 
England  ever  saw.  Why  will  men  destroy  noble 
Forests,  even  when  in  part  a  nuisance,  in  such  reck- 


48 


RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 


less    manner  ;    turning    loose    four-footed    cattle    and 

Henry-the- Eighths  into  them !     The  fifth  part  of  our 

English  soil,   Dryasdust  computes,  lay  consecrated  to 

'spiritual  uses.'  better  or  worse;    solemnly   set   apart 

to  foster  spiritual  growth  and  culture  of  the  soul,  by 

the  methods  then  known  :  and  now — it   too,  like  the 

four-fifths,    fosters    what  ?     Gentle   shepherd,   tell    me 

what ! 

Thomas  Carlyle. 


THE    LOCK. 


'I  was  nervous  about  our  first  lock.' 


THE   FIRST    LOCK. 

OAFE  under  our  shelter,  we  could  enjoy  all  the 
beauty  of  the  grey  day — the  richness  of  the 
masses  of  wet  foliage,  the  softness  of  the  distant  trees 
and  fields  under  their  veil  of  rain,  the  swaying  of  the 
tall  poplars  in  the  wind  ;  while  the  patter  patter  of  the 
rain  on  our  canvas  roof  made  an  accompaniment  to  the 
low  roar  of  the  near  lasher  and  the  rippling  of  the 
water  against  the  boat. 

I  should  have  been  willing  to  stay  there  for  the  rest 
of  the  day.  I  was  nervous  about  our  first  lock.  The 
river  was  high  after  long-continued  rains,  and  for  two 
people  who  knew  nothing  about  boats  and  could  not 
swim,  the  Thames  journey  with  such  a  stream  running 
was  not  promising.  Already  we  could  hear  the  noise 
of  the  water  tumbling  over  the  dam.  Then  we  could 
see  the  strong  current  of  the  mill  race  sweeping  in  a 
swift-rushing  funnel,  ready  to  carr)^  us  with  it.  It 
looked  dangerous,  and  indeed  it  is,  if  you  get  caught 
in  it.     Only  the  day  before,  a  poor  little  boy  had  been 


54  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

drowned  here.  Now,  we  were  glad  to  find  the  lock 
gates  open,  so  that  there  was  no  occasion  to  hang  on 
to  the  muddy  banks.  J — —  put  his  sculls  in  deep, 
giving  strong  but  uncertain  digs,  and  pulled  them  out 
with  a  jerk,  mindful  of  Mr.  Bouncer's  counsel :  I  can- 
not call  his  frantic  efforts  of  those  first  days  sculling. 
But  the  lock-keeper,  as  in  the  time  of  Tom  Brown, 
was  equal  to  the  occasion.  He  came  out,  smoking  his 
pipe  with  enviable  indifference,  seized  our  bow  with  his 
long  boat-hook,  and  pulled  us  into  the  lock.  The 
great  upper  gates  were  slowly  closed,  he  opened  the 
lower  sluices,  and  the  water  began  to  fall.  At  this 
point,  we  had  been  warned,  comes  one  of  the  dangers 
of  the  river  journey.  For  if  you  lose  control  of  your 
boat,  it  drifts  across  the  lock,  as  happened  to  Tom 
Brown  on  his  memorable  first  row  on  the  river.  And 
even  if  you  keep  it  close  to  the  side  of  the  lock,  if 
bow  or  stern  catch  on  the  slippery  beams  or  posts 
found  in  some  locks,  especially  in  old  ones,  the  water, 
rising  or  falling,  turns  you  over  at  once.  In  fact,  it  is 
remarkably  easy  to  upset  in  a  lock,  and  as  difficult  to 
get  out  again.  But  then  there  is  absolutely  no  neces- 
sity to  upset,  and  that  we  were  not  drowned  shows 
that  with  ordinary  common  sense  and  a  little  bit  of 
prudence  all  danger  can  be  avoided. 

While  the  water  ran  out,  the  lock-keeper  came  and 
gave  us  that  curious  literary  production,  a  Thames 
Lock  Ticket.  It  admits  you  'through,  by,  or  over 
the  lock  or  weir'  for  threepence.     That  is,  I  suppose. 


THE    FIRST    LOCK.  55 

you  can  go  through  the  lock  in  Christian  fashion, 
drown  under  the  weir,  push  and  pull  over  the  roller  if 
there  is  one,  or  drag  your  boat  round  by  the  shore  ; 
but  whether  you  come  out  dead  or  alive,  for  any  of 
these  privileges  the  Thames  Conservancy  will  have  its 
threepence. 

Elizabeth  Pennell. 


THE    SMITHY. 


'There  was  the  pleasant  tinkle  of  the  blacksmith's  anvil,  the 
patient  cart-horses  waiting  at  his  door.' 


STAGE-COACH    DAYS. 

T  N  those  days  there  were  pocket  boroughs,  a  Bir- 
mingham unrepresented  in  ParHament  and  com- 
pelled to  make  strong  representations  out  of  it, 
unrepealed  corn-laws,  three-and-sixpenny  letters,  a 
brawny  and  many-breeding  pauperism,  and  other 
departed  evils  ;  but  there  were  some  pleasant  things 
too,  which  have  also  departed.  No7i  omnia  grandior 
(€tas  quce  ftigiamus  habet,  says  the  wise  goddess  :  you 
have  not  the  best  of  it  in  all  things,  O  youngsters !  the 
elderly  man  has  his  enviable  memories,  and  not  the 
least  of  them  is  the  memory  of  a  long  journey  in  mid- 
spring  or  autumn  on  the  outside  of  a  stage-coach. 
Posterity  may  be  shot,  like  a  bullet  through  a  tube,  by 
atmospheric  pressure  from  Winchester  to  Newcastle  : 
that  is  a  fine  result  to  have  among  our  hopes  ;  but  the 
slow  old-fashioned  way  of  getting  from  one  end  of  our 
country  to  the  other  is  the  better  thing  to  have  in  the 
memory.  The  tube-journey  can  never  lend  much  to 
picture  and  narrative  ;  it  is  as  barren  as  an  exclamatory 


62  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

O !  Whereas  the  happy  outside  passenger  seated  on 
the  box  from  the  dawn  to  the  gloaming  gathered 
enough  stories  of  EngHsh  life,  enough  of  English 
labours  in  town  and  country,  enough  aspects  of  earth 
and  sky,  to  make  episodes  for  a  modern  Odyssey. 
Suppose  only  that  his  journey  took  him  through  that 
central  plain,  watered  at  one  extremity  by  the  Avon, 
at  the  other  by  the  Trent.  As  the  morning  silvered 
the  meadows  with  their  long  lines  of  bushy  willows 
marking  the  watercourses,  or  burnished  the  golden 
corn-ricks  clustered  near  the  long  roofs  of  some  mid- 
land homestead,  he  saw  the  full-uddered  cows  driven 
from  their  pasture  to  the  early  milking.  Perhaps  it 
was  the  shepherd,  head-servant  of  the  farm,  who 
drove  them,  his  sheep-dog  following  with  a  heedless 
unofficial  air  as  of  a  beadle  in  undress.  The  shepherd 
with  a  slow  and  slouching  walk,  timed  by  the  walk  of 
grazing  beasts,  moved  aside,  as  if  unwillingly,  throw- 
ing out  a  monosyllabic  hint  to  his  cattle ;  his  glance, 
accustomed  to  rest  on  things  very  near  the  earth, 
seemed  to  lift  itself  with  difficulty  to  the  coachman. 
Mail  or  stage  coach  for  him  belonged  to  that  mysteri- 
ous distant  system  of  things  called  *  Gover'ment,' 
which,  whatever  it  might  be,  was  no  business  of  his, 
any  more  than  the  most  out-lying  nebula  or  the  coal- 
sacks  of  the  southern  hemisphere :  his  solar  system 
was  the  parish  ;  the  master's  temper  and  the  casualties 
of  lambing-time  were  his  region  of  storms. 

But  there  were  trim  cheerful  villages   too,   with  a 


STAGE-COACH    DAYS.  63 

neat  or  handsome  parsonage  and  grey  church  set  in 
the  midst ;  there  was  the  pleasant  tinkle  of  the  black- 
smith's anvil,  the  patient  cart-horses  waiting  at  his 
door ;  the  basket-maker  peeling  his  willow  wands  in 
the  sunshine  ;  the  wheelwright  putting  the  last  touch 
to  a  blue  cart  with  red  wheels  ;  here  and  there  a  cot- 
tage with  bright  transparent  windows  showing  pots  full 
of  blooming  balsams  or  geraniums,  and  little  gardens 
in  front  all  double  daisies  or  dark  wallflowers  ;  at  the 
well,  clean  and  comely  women  carrying  yoked  buckets, 
and  towards  the  free  school  small  Britons  dawdling  on, 
and  handling  their  marbles  in  the  pockets  of  un- 
patched  corduroys  adorned  with  brass  buttons.  The 
land  around  was  rich  and  marly,  great  cornstacks 
stood  in  the  rick-yards — for  the  rick-burners  had  not 
found  their  way  hither ;  the  homesteads  were  those  of 
rich  farmers  who  paid  no  rent,  or  had  the  rare  advan- 
tage of  a  lease,  and  could  afford  to  keep  their  corn  till 
prices  had  risen. 

George  Eliot. 


^. 


THE    FARM-YARD. 


....  "tis  not  th'  extent 
Of  Land  makes  life,  but  sweet  content.' 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE. 

OWEET  Country  life,  to  such  unknown, 

Whose  lives  are  others',  not  their  own ! 
But  serving  Courts,  and  Cities,  be 
Less  happy,  less  enjoying  thee. 
Thou  never  Plow'st  the  Ocean's  foame 
To  seek,  and  bring  rough  Pepper  home : 
Nor  to  the  Eastern  Ind  dost  rove 
To  bring  from  thence  the  scorched  Clove. 
Nor,  with  the  losse  of  thy  lov'd  rest, 
Bring'st  home  the  Ingot  from  the  West. 
No,  thy  Ambition's  Master-piece 
Flies  no  thought  higher  than  a  fleece  : 
Or  how  to  pay   thy   Hinds,  and  cleere 
All  scores  ;  and  so  to  end  the  yeere  : 
But  walk'st  about  thine  own  dear  bounds, 
Not  envying  others  larger  grounds  : 
For  well  thou  know'st,  'tis  not  tJi   extent 
Of  Land  makes  life,  bnt  siveet  content. 
When  now  the  Cock  (the  Plow-man's  Home) 
Calls  forth  the  lilly-wristed  Morne ; 


70  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

Then  to  thy  corn-fields  thou  dost  goe, 
Which  though  well  soyl'd,  yet  thou  dost  know 
That  the  best  compost  for  the  Lands 
Is  the  wise  Masters  Feet,  and  Hands. 
There  at  the  Plough  thou  find'st  thy  Teame, 
With  a  Hind  whistling  there  to  them  : 
And  cheer'st  them  up,  by  singing  how 
The  Kingdoms  portion  is  the  Plow. 
This  done,  then  to  th'  enameld  Meads 
Thou  go'st,  and  as  thy  foot  there  treads, 
Thou  seest  a  present  God-like  Power 
Imprinted  in  each  Herbe  and  Flower  : 
And  smell'st  the  breath  of  great-ey'd  Kine, 
Sweet  as  the  blossomes  of  the  Vine. 
Here  thou  behold'st  thy  large  sleek  Neat 
Unto  the  Dew-laps  up  in  meat : 
And,  as  thou  look'st,  the  wanton  Steere, 
The  Heifer,   Cow,  and  Oxe  draw  neere 
To  make  a  pleasing  pastime  there. 
These  seen,  thou  go'st  to  view  thy  flocks 
Of  sheep,  (safe  from  the  Wolfe  and  Fox) 
And  find'st  their  bellies  there  as  full 
Of  short  sweet  grasse,  as  backs  with  wool. 
And  leav'st  them  (as  they  feed  and  fill) 
A  Shepherd  piping  on  a  hill. 
For  Sports,  for  Pagentrie,  and  Playes, 
Thou  hast  thy  Eves,  and  Holydayes  : 
On  which  the  young  men  and  maids  meet. 
To  exercise  their  dancing  feet : 


THE    COUNTRY    LIFE.  71 

Tripping  the  comely  country  Round, 
With  Daffadils  and  Daisies  crown'd. 
Thy  Wakes,  thy  Quintels,  here  thou  hast, 
Thy  May-poles  too  with  Garlands  grac't ; 
Thy  Morris-dance  ;  thy  Whitsun-ale ; 
Thy  Sheering-feast,  which  never  faile. 
Thy  Harvest  home ;  thy  Wassaile  bowle, 
That's  tost  up  after  Fox  i'  th'   Hole. 
Thy  Mummeries ;  thy  Twelfe-tide  Kings 
And  Queenes ;  thy  Christmas  revellings : 
Thy  Nut-browne  mirth ;  thy  Russet  wit  ; 
And  no  man  payes  too  deare  for  it. 
To  these,  thou  hast  thy  times  to  goe 
And  trace  the  Hare  i'  th'  trecherous  Snow  : 
Thy  witty  wiles  to  draw,  and  get 
The  Larke  into  the  Trammell  net : 
Thou  hast  thy  Cockrood,  and  thy  Glade 
To  take  the  precious  Phesant  made : 
Thy  Lime-twigs,  Snares,  and  Pit-falls  then 
To  catch  the  pilfring  Birds,  not  Men. 
O  happy  life !  if  that  their  good 
The  Husbandmen  but  understood ! 
Who  all  the  day  themselves  doe  please, 
And  Younglings,  with  such  sports  as  these. 
And,  lying  down,  have  nought  t'  affright 
Sweet  sleep,  that  makes  more  short  the  night. 

Robert  Herrick. 


THE    OLD    CHAIR-MENDER    AT 
THE    COTTAGE    DOOR. 


*  England  is  like  a  seat  by  the  chimney-comer,  and  is  as  redolent 
of  human  occupancy  and  domesticity.' 


ENGLAND. 

II^NGLAND  is  not  a  country  of  granite  and 
marble,  but  of  chalk,  marl,  and  clay.  The 
old  Plutonic  gods  do  not  assert  themselves  ;  they  are 
buried  and  turned  to  dust,  and  the  more  modern 
humanistic  divinities  bear  sway.  The  land  is  a  green 
cemetery  of  extinct  rude  forces.  Where  the  highway 
or  the  railway  gashed  the  hills  deeply,  I  could  seldom 
tell  where  the  soil  ended  and  the  rock  began,  as  they 
gradually  assimilated,   blended,  and  became  one. 

And  this  is  the  key  to  nature  in  England  :  'tis 
granite  grown  ripe  and  mellow,  and  issuing  in  grass 
and  verdure  ;  'tis  aboriginal  force  and  fecundity 
become  docile  and  equable,  and  mounting  toward 
higher  forms, — the  harsh,  bitter  rind  of  the  earth 
grown  sweet  and  edible.  There  is  such  body  and 
substance  in  the  colour  and  presence  of  things  that 
one  thinks  the  very  roots  of  the  grass  must  go  deeper 
than  usual.  The  crude,  the  raw,  the  discordant,  where 
are  they  ?     It  seems  a  comparatively  short  and  easy 


78  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

step  from  nature  to  the  canvas  or  to  the  poem  in  this 
cosy  land.  Nothing  need  be  added  ;  the  idealisation 
has  already  taken  place.  The  Old  World  is  deeply 
covered  with  a  kind  of  human  leaf-mould,  while  the 
New  is  for  the  most  part  yet  raw,  undigested  hard- 
pan.  This  is  why  these  scenes  haunt  one  like  a 
memory.  One  seems  to  have  youthful  associations 
with  every  field  and  hill-top  he  looks  upon.  The 
complete  humanisation  of  nature  has  taken  place. 
The  soil  has  been  mixed  with  human  thought  and 
substance.  These  fields  have  been  alternately  Celt, 
Roman,  British,  Norman,  Saxon ;  they  have  moved 
and  walked  and  talked  and  loved  and  suffered  ;  hence 
one  feels  kindred  to  them  and  at  home  among  them. 
The  mother-land,  indeed.  Every  foot  of  its  soil  has 
given  birth  to  a  human  being  and  grown  tender  and 
conscious  with  time. 

England  is  like  a  seat  by  the  chimney-corner,  and 
is  as  redolent  of  human  occupancy  and  domesticity. 
It  has  the  island  cosiness  and  unity  and  the  island 
simplicity  as  opposed  to  the  continental  diversity  of 
forms.  It  is  all  one  neighbourhood  ;  a  friendly  and 
familiar  air  is  over  all.  It  satisfies  to  the  full  one's 
utmost  craving  for  the  home-like  and  for  the  fruits  of 
affectionate  occupation  of  the  soil.  It  does  not  satisfy 
one's  cravings  for  the  wild,  the  savage,  the  aboriginal, 
what  our  poet  describes  as  his 

'Hungering,  hungering,  hungering,  for  primal  energies 
and  Nature's  dauntlessness.' 


ENGLAND.  79 

But  probably  in  the  matter  of  natural  scenes  we 
hunger  most  for  that  which  we  most  do  feed  upon. 
At  any  rate,  I  can  conceive  that  one  might  be  easily 
contented  with  what  the  English  landscape  affords 
him. 

The  whole  physiognomy  of  the  land  bespeaks  the 
action  of  slow,  uniform,  conservative  agencies.  There 
is  an  elemental  composure  and  moderation  in  things 
that  leave  their  mark  everywhere, — a  sort  of  elemental 
sweetness  and  docility  that  are  a  surprise  and  a  charm. 
One  does  not  forget  that  the  evolution  of  man  pro- 
bably occurred  in  this  hemisphere,  and  time  would 
seem  to  have  proved  that  there  is  something  here 
more  favourable  to  his  perpetuity  and  longevity. 

yohn  Burroughs. 


THE    HAY-FIELD. 


G 


*In  the  foreground  was  a  waggon  piled  with  hay,  surrounded 
by  the  Farmer  and  his  fine  family, — some  pitching,  some  loading, 
some  raking  after,  all  intent  on  their  pleasant  business.' 


«••  •        • 


HAY-CARRYING. 

T  T  ER  new  inmate,  who,  without  positively  declining 

to  give  his  name,  had,  yet,  contrived  to  evade 

all  the  questions   Mrs.   Kent  could  devise,  proved  a 

perpetual  source  of  astonishment,  both  to  herself  and 

her  neighbours. 

He  was  a  well-made  little  man,  near  upon  forty  ; 
with  considerable  terseness  of  feature,  a  forehead  of 
great  power,  whose  effect  was  increased  by  a  slight 
baldness  on  the  top  of  the  head,  and  an  eye  like  a 
falcon.  Such  an  eye  !  It  seemed  to  go  through  you 
— to  strike  all  that  it  looked  upon,  like  a  coup-de-soleil. 
Luckily,  the  stranger  was  so  merciful  as,  generally,  to 
wear  spectacles  ;  under  cover  of  which  those  terrible 
eyes  might  see,  and  be  seen,  without  danger. 

His  habits  were  as  peculiar  as  his  appearance.  He 
was  moderate,  and  rather  fanciful,  in  his  diet  ;  drank 
nothing  but  water,  or  strong  coffee,  made,  as  Mrs. 
Kent  observed,  very  wastefully  ;  and  had,  as  she  also 
remarked,    a    great     number    of    heathenish-looking 


86  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

books  scattered  about  the  apartment — Lord  Berners's 
Froissart,  for  instance,  Sir  Thomas  Browne's  Urn 
Burial,  the  Baskerville  Ariosto, — Goethe's  Faust, — a 
Spanish  Don  Quixote, — and  an  interleaved  Philoctetes, 
full  of  outline  drawings.  The  greater  part  of  his  time 
was  spent  out  of  doors. — He  would,  even,  ramble 
away,  for  three  or  four  days  together,  with  no  other 
companion  than  a  boy,  hired  in  the  village,  to  carry 
what  Mrs.  Kent  denominated  his  odds  and  ends ; 
which  odds  and  ends  consisted,  for  the  most  part,  of 
an  angling  rod  and  a  sketching  apparatus — our 
incognito  being,  as  my  readers  have,  by  this  time, 
probably  discovered,  no  other  than  an  artist,  on  his 
summer  progress. 

Robert  speedily  understood  the  stranger,  and  was 
delighted  with  the  opportunity  of  approaching  so 
gifted  a  person ;  although  he  contemplated,  with  a 
degree  of  generous  envy,  which  a  king's  regalia  would 
have  failed  to  excite  in  his  bosom,  those  chef  d' oeuvres 
of  all  nations,  which  were  to  him  as  *  sealed  books,'  | 

and  the  pencils,  whose  power  seemed  to  him  little  less  | 

than    creative.     He    redoubled    his    industry    in    the  1 

garden,   that  he  might,  conscientiously,  devote  hours  i 

and   half-hours   to   pointing  out  the  deep  pools  and  % 

shallow  eddies  of   their   romantic    stream,   where   he  }. 

knew,  from  experience,  (for  Robert,  amongst  his  other  ^ 

accomplishments,    was     no    mean    '  brother    of    the  | 

angle,')  that  fish  were  likely  to  be  found  ;  and,  better 
still,  he  loved  to  lead  to  the  haunts  of  his  childhood, 


HAY-CARRYING.  87 

the  wild  bosky  dells,  and  the  sunny  ends  of  lanes, 
where  a  sudden  turn  in  the  track,  an  overhanging 
tree,  an  old  gate,  a  cottage  chimney,  and  a  group  of 
cattle  or  children,  had,  sometimes,  formed  a  picture, 
on  which  his  mind  had  fed  for  hours. 

It  was  Robert's  chief  pleasure  to  entice  his  lodger 
to  scenes  such  as  these,  and  to  see  his  own  visions 
growing  into  reality,  under  the  glowing  pencil  of  the 
artist;  and  he,  in  his  turn,  would  admire,  and  marvel 
at,  the  natural  feeling  of  the  beautiful,  which  could 
lead  an  uninstructed  country-youth  instinctively  to 
the  very  elements  of  the  picturesque.  A  general 
agreement  of  taste  had  brought  about  a  degree  of 
association  unusual  between  persons  so  different  in 
rank :  a  particular  instance  of  this  accordance 
dissolved  the  intimacy. 

Robert  had  been,  for  above  a  fortnight,  more  than 
commonly  busy  in  Mr.  Lescombe's  gardens  and  hot- 
houses, so  busy  that  he  even  slept  at  the  hall ;  the 
stranger,  on  the  other  hand,  had  been,  during  the 
same  period,  shut  up,  painting,  in  the  little  parlour. 
At  last  they  met ;  and  the  artist  invited  his  young 
friend  to  look  at  the  picture,  which  had  engaged  him 
during  his  absence.  On  walking  into  the  room  he 
saw  on  the  easel  a  picture  in  oils,  almost  finished. 
The  style  was  of  that  delightful  kind,  which  combines 
figures  with  landscape,  the  subject  was  hay-carrying  ; 
and  the  scene,  that  very  sloping  meadow, — crowned 
by    Farmer     Bell's    tall    irregular    house,    its    vine- 


88  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

wreathed  porch,  and  chimneys,  the  great  walnut-tree 
before  the  door,  the  orchard  and  the  homestead — 
which  formed  the  actual  prospect  from  the  windows 
before  them.  In  the  foreground  was  a  waggon  piled 
with  hay,  surrounded  by  the  Farmer  and  his  fine 
family, — some  pitching,  some  loading,  some  raking 
after,  all  intent  on  their  pleasant  business.  The  only 
disengaged  persons  in  the  field  were  young  Mary 
Kent  and  Harry  Bell,  an  urchin  of  four  years  old, 
who  rode  on  her  knee  on  the  top  of  the  waggon, 
crowned  and  wreathed  with  garlands  of  vine-leaves, 
and  bind-weed,  and  poppies,  and  corn-flowers.  In 
the  front,  looking  up  at  Mary  Kent  and  her  little 
brother,  and  playfully  tossing  to  them  the  lock  of 
hay  which  she  had  gathered  on  her  rake,  stood  Susan 
Bell,  her  head  thrown  back,  her  bonnet  half  off,  her 
light  and  lovely  figure  shown,  in  all  its  grace,  by  the 
pretty  attitude  and  the  short  cool  dress  ;  while  her 
sweet  face,  glowing  with  youth  and  beauty,  had  a 
smile  playing  over  it,  like  a  sunbeam.  The  boy  was 
nodding  and  laughing  to  her,  and  seemed  longing — 
as  well  he  might — to  escape  from  his  flowery  bondage, 
and  jump  into  her  arms.  Never  had  poet  framed 
a  lovelier  image  of  rural  beauty !  Never  had  painter 
more  felicitously  realized  his  conception ! 

Mary  Russell  Mitford. 


THE    GREEN    LANE, 


'Give  me  the  clear  blue  sky  over  my  head,  and  the  green  turf 
beneath  my  feet,  a  winding  road  before  me,  and  a  three  hours'  march 
to  dinner — and  then  to  thinking  ! ' 


ON  GOING  A  JOURNEY. 

/^~\NE  of  the  pleasantest  things  in  the  world  is 
^-^  going  a  journey  ;  but  I  like  to  go  by  myself. 
I  can  enjoy  society  in  a  room ;  but  out  of  doors, 
nature  is  company  enough  for  me.  I  am  then  never 
less  alone  than  when  alone. 

'The  fields  his  study,  nature  was  his  book.' 

I  cannot  see  the  wit  of  walking  and  talking  at  the 
same  time.  When  I  am  in  the  country,  I  wish  to 
vegetate  like  the  countr)^  I  am  not  for  criticising 
hedge-rows  and  black  cattle.  I  go  out  of  town  in 
order  to  forget  the  town  and  all  that  is  in  it.  There 
are  those  who  for  this  purpose  go  to  watering-places, 
and  carr)-  the  metropolis  with  them.  I  like  more 
elbow-room,  and  fewer  encumbrances.  I  like  soli- 
tude, when  I  give  myself  up  to  it,  for  the  sake  of 
solitude  ;  nor  do  I  ask  for 

'a  friend  in  my  retreat, 


Whom  I  may  whisper  solitude  is  sweet' 


94  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

The  soul  of  a  journey  is  liberty,  perfect  liberty,  to 
think,  feel,  do,  just  as  one  pleases.  We  go  a  journey 
chiefly  to  be  free  of  all  impediments  and  of  all  incon- 
veniences ;  to  leave  ourselves  behind  much  more 
to  get  rid  of  others.  It  is  because  I  want  a  little 
breathing-space  to  muse  on  indifferent  matters,  where 
Contemplation 

*  May  plume  her  feathers  and  let  grow  her  wings. 
That  in  the  various  bustle  of  resort 
Were  all  too  ruffled,  and  sometimes  impair'd,' 

that  I  absent  myself  from  the  town  for  a  while, 
without  feeling  at  a  loss  the  moment  I  am  left  by 
myself.  Instead  of  a  friend  in  a  postchaise  or  in  a 
Tilbury,  to  exchange  good  things  with,  and  vary  the 
same  stale  topics  over  again,  for  once  let  me  have 
a  truce  with  impertinence.  Give  me  the  clear  blue 
sky  over  my  head,  and  the  green  turf  beneath  my 
feet,  a  winding  road  before  me,  and  a  three  hours' 
march  to  dinner — and  then  to  thinking!  It  is  hard 
if  I  cannot  start  some  game  on  these  lone  heaths. 
I  laugh,  I  run,  I  leap,  I  sing  for  joy.  From  the 
point  of  yonder  rolling  cloud,  I  plunge  into  my  past 
being,  and  revel  there,  as  the  sun-burnt  Indian  plunges 
headlong  into  the  wave  that  wafts  him  to  his  native 
shore.  Then  long-forgotten  things,  like  'sunken 
wrack  and  sumless  treasuries,'  burst  upon  my  eager 
sight,  and  I  begin  to  feel,  think,  and  be  myself  again. 
Instead  of  an  awkward  silence,   broken  by  attempts 


ON    GOING    A    JOURNEY.  95 

at  wit  or  dull  common-places,  mine  is  that  undisturbed 
silence  of  the  heart  which  alone  is  perfect  eloquence. 
No  one  likes  puns,  alliterations,  antitheses,  argument, 
and  analysis  better  than  I  do ;  but  I  sometimes  had 
rather  be  without  them.  *  Leave,  oh,  leave  me  to 
my  repose ! '  I  have  just  now  other  business  in  hand, 
which  would  seem  idle  to  you,  but  is  with  rhe  'very 
stuff  o'  the  conscience.'  Is  not  this  wild  rose  sweet 
without  a  comment  .f*  Does  not  this  daisy  leap  to 
my  heart  set  in  its  coat  of  emerald  ?  Yet  if  I  were 
to  explain  to  you  the  circumstance  that  has  so  en- 
deared it  to  me,  you  would  only  smile.  Had  I  not 
better  then  keep  it  to  myself,  and  let  it  serve  me  to 
brood  over,  from  here  to  yonder  craggy  point,  and 
from  thence  onward  to  the  far  distant  horizon  ?  I 
should  be  but  bad  company  all  that  way,  and  there- 
fore prefer  being  alone.  I  have  heard  it  said  that 
you  may,  when  the  moody  fit  comes  on,  walk  or  ride 
on  by  yourself,  and  indulge  your  reveries.  But  this 
looks  like  a  breach  of  manners,  a  neMect  of  others 
and  you  are  thinking  all  the  time  that  you  ought  to 
rejoin  your  party.  *  Out  upon  such  half-faced  fellow- 
ship,' say  I.  I  like  to  be  either  entirely  to  myself, 
or  entirely  at  the  disposal  of  others ;  to  talk  or  be 
silent,  to  walk  or  sit  still,  to  be  sociable  or  solitary. 
I  was  pleased  with  an  observation  of  Mr.  Cobbett's, 
that  '  he  thought  it  a  bad  French  custom  to  drink 
our  wine  with  our  meals,  and  that  an  Englishman 
ought  to  do  only  one  thing  at  a  time.'     So  I  cannot 


96  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

talk  and  think,  or  indulge  in  melancholy  musing  and 
lively  conversation  by  fits  and  starts.  '  Let  me  have 
a  companion  of  my  way,'  says  Sterne,  'were  it  but 
to  remark  how  the  shadows  lengthen  as  the  sun 
declines.'  It  is  beautifully  said  :  but  in  my  opinion, 
this  continual  comparing  of  notes  interferes  with  the 
involuntary  impression  of  things  upon  the  mind,  and 
hurts  the  sentiment.  If  you  only  hint  what  you  feel 
in  a  kind  of  dumb  show,  it  is  insipid  :  if  you  have 
to  explain  it,  it  is  making  a  toil  of  a  pleasure.  You 
cannot  read  the  book  of  nature  without  being  per- 
petually put  to  the  trouble  of  translating  it  for  the 
benefit  of  others.  I  am  for  this  synthetical  method 
on  a  journey  in  preference  to  the  analytical.  I  am 
content  to  lay  in  a  stock  of  ideas  then,  and  to  examine 
and  anatomise  them  afterwards.  I  want  to  see  my 
vague  notions  float  like  the  down  of  the  thistle  before 
the  breeze,  and  not  to  have  them  entangled  in  the 
briars  and  thorns  of  controversy.  For  once,  I  like 
to  have  it  all  my  own  way  ;  and  this  is  impossible 
unless  you  are  alone,  or  in  such  company  as  I  do 
not  covet. 

William  Hazliit. 


THE   WIND-MILL. 


II 


'A  mill  stood  up  forlorn,  its  arms  shivering  idly  in  the  wind.' 


AMONG  THE  CH I LTERNSl-    ■•■■'•-•■• 

A  S  the  landlady  had  predicted  the  itinerant  came 
shortly  to  a  highway,  across  which  he  found 
another  gate  on  the  latch.  He  had  been  ascending 
all  the  time,  and  had  now  come  to  the  brow  of  the 
hill,  among  larches  and  birches  hanging  with  soft 
green.  Higher  up  he  reached  a  grove  of  beeches. 
The  old  trees  had  fluted  stems,  knobs  where  the  sap 
had  boiled  over,  and  long  intertwining  branches,  as  if 
they  stood  embraced  and  ready  for  the  dance — listen- 
ing for  the  word  or  note  to  dissolve  the  spell  that  held 
them  root-bound.  In  the  case  of  the  younger  ones, 
tall  and  graceful,  their  branches  hanging  easily  about 
them,  the  spell  had  evidently  been  already  dissolved  ; 
but  they,  too,  were  waiting — perhaps  to  choose  part- 
ners, or  for  the  old  ones  to  lead  off,  or  on  account  of 
some  whim  ;  but  the  charm  will  be  wrought  again 
before  they  can  make  up  their  minds  to  trip  off  down 
the  hill  and  see  the  world  ;  and  the  axe  may  be  their 
sole  disenchanter,  at  a  time,  too,  when  it  would  content 


I02  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

them  just  to  be  conscious  of  the   sap   rising  in  the 
spring,  to  be  assured  that  they  are  only  not  dead. 

Behind  the  beeches  lay  a  field  on  whose  dimpled 
slopes,  covered  with  the  downy  green  of  the  springing 
corn,  the  brown  earth  was  visible  like  the  cheek  of 
a  young  man  through  an  unrazored  beard.  Towards 
vAldbtir^  there  was  ploughed  land  on  the  hill-sides, 
which  the  itinerant  surveyed  with  much  curiosity,  as 
he'  had  never  been  on  a  chalk  escarpment  before. 
Some  of  the  fields  were  as  white  as  a  leper,  some 
only  buff-coloured,  and  in  some  again  the  brown  earth 
was  streaked  and  pied  with  stripes  and  blotches  of 
white  soil — very  curious  and  artificial  looking  when 
seen  for  the  first  time.  To  the  north-west  the  view 
was  uninterruped  far  across  Buckinghamshire,  a  rolling 
plain,  rich  with  England's  best.  In  Wendover  a  mill 
stood  up  forlorn,  its  arms  shivering  idly  in  the  wind  ; 
it  seemed  to  look  out  across  the  fields  tinged  with  the 
green  of  the  coming  harvest — not  so  forlornly,  either  ; 
hopefully  rather,  if  with  a  little  anxiety,  there  will 
surely  be  work  for  the  wind  and  it  yet.  But  the  mill 
must  have  sighed  to  itself,  for  there  was  such  a  mag- 
nificent steady  east  blowing,  like  the  strong  flight  of  a 
flock  of  birds,  and  knowing  no  lull  in  the  plain.  On 
the  hill  it  rose  and  fell,  and  sighed  and  roared  among 
the  beeches  with  the  sound  of  November  in  its  voice, 
but  summer  in  its  breath,  drunk  with  weeks  of  level 
sunshine.  On  the  surges  of  its  deafening  chant,  like 
crests  of  foam  on  the  waves,  or  lightning  glancing  on 


AMONG    THE    CHILTERNS.        103 

a  soaring  cloud,  the  lofty  notes  of  the  tireless  larks 
sparkled  and  shone,  tongues  of  flame  in  the  storm  of 
sound. 

yohn  Davidson. 


OLD    COTTAGES. 


*  These  humble  dwelHngs  remind  the  contemplative  spectator  or  a 
production  of  Nature.' 


*  i  »     •   «  ♦ 


LAKE    DWELLINGS. 

"  I  ^HE  cottages  are  scattered  over  the  valleys,  and 
under   the   hill-sides,   and   on    the    rocks  ;    and. 
even  to   this  day.   in  the  more  retired  dales,  without 
any  intrusion  of  more  assuming  buildings  ; 

Cluster'd  like  stars  some  few,  but  single  most. 
And  lurking  dimly  in  their  shy  retreats, 
Or  glancing  on  each  other  cheerful  looks, 
Like  separated  stars  with  clouds  between. — MS. 

The  dwelling-houses,  and  contiguous  Outhouses,  are, 
in  many  instances,  of  the  colour  of  the  native  rock, 
out  of  which  they  have  been  built  ;  but.  frequently  the 
Dwelling  or  Fire-house,  as  it  is  ordinarily  called,  has 
been  distinguished  from  the  barn  or  byre  by  rough- 
cast and  white-wash,  which,  as  the  inhabitants  are 
not  hasty  in  renewing  it,  in  a  few  years  acquires,  by 
the  influence  of  weather,  a  tint  at  once  sober  and 
variegated.  As  these  houses  have  been,  from  father 
to    son,    inhabited   by   persons   engaged    in    the   same 


no  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

occupations,    yet    necessarily    with    changes    in    their 
circumstances,  they  have  received  without  incongruity 
additions  and  accommodations  adapted  to  the  needs 
of  each  successive  occupant,  who,  being  for  the  most 
part  proprietor,  was  at  Hberty  to  follow  his  own  fancy  : 
so  that  these  humble  dwellings  remind  the  contempla- 
tive spectator  of  a  production   of   Nature,   and  may 
(using  a  strong   expression)   rather  be    said   to   have 
grown  than  to  have  been  erected  ; — to  have  risen,  by 
an  instinct  of  their  own,  out  of  the  native  rock — so 
little  is  there  in  them  of  formality,  such  is  their  wild- 
ness  and  beauty.     Among  the  numerous  recesses  and 
projections  in  the  walls  and  in  the  different  stages  of 
their  roofs,   are  seen  bold  and  harmonious  effects  of 
contrasted  sunshine  and  shadow.      It  is  a  favourable 
circumstance,    that    the    strong   winds,    which    sweep 
down  the  valleys,   induced  the  inhabitants,  at  a  time 
when  the  materials  for  building  were  easily  procured, 
to  furnish   many  of  these  dwellings  with  substantial 
porches  ;    and    such    as    have    not    this   defence,    are 
seldom    unprovided    with   a   projection    of   two   large 
slates  over  their  thresholds.      Nor  will  the  singular 
beauty  of  the  chimneys  escape  the  eye  of  the  attentive 
traveller.     Sometimes  a  low  chimney,  almost  upon  a 
level  with  the  roof,  is  overlaid  with  a  slate,  supported 
upon  four  slender  pillars,  to    prevent  the  wind  from 
driving  the  smoke  down  the  chimney.     Others  are  of 
a  quadrangular  shape,  rising  one  or  two  feet  above  the 
roof;  which  low  square  is  often  surmounted  by  a  tall 


LAKE    DWELLINGS.  m 

cylinder,  giving  to  the  cottage  chimney  the  most  beau- 
tiful shape  in  which  it  is  ever  seen.  Nor  will  it  be  too 
fanciful  or  refined  to  remark,  that  there  is  a  pleasing 
harmony  between  a  tall  chimney  of  this  circular  form 
and  the  living  column  of  smoke,  ascending  from  it 
through  the  still  air.  These  dwellings,  mostly  built,  as 
has  been  said,  of  rough  unhewn  stone,  are  roofed  with 
slates,  which  were  rudely  taken  from  the  quarry  before 
the  present  art  of  splitting  them  was  understood,  and 
are,  therefore,  rough  and  uneven  in  their  surface,  so 
that  both  the  coverings  and  sides  of  the  houses  have 
furnished  places  of  rest  for  the  seeds  of  lichens, 
mosses,  ferns,  and  flowers.  Hence  buildings,  which  in 
their  very  form  call  to  mind  the  processes  of  Nature, 
do  thus,  clothed  in  part  with  a  vegetable  garb,  appear 
to  be  received  into  the  bosom  of  the  living  principle 
of  things,  as  it  acts  and  exists  among  the  woods  and 
fields  ;  and,  by  their  colour  and  their  shape,  affectingly 
direct  the  thoughts  to  that  tranquil  course  of  Nature 
and  simplicity,  along  which  the  humble-minded  inhabi- 
tants have,  through  so  many  generations,  been  led. 
Add  the  little  garden  with  its  shed  for  bee-hives,  its 
small  bed  of  pot-herbs,  and  its  borders  and  patches  of 
flowers  for  Sunday  posies,  with  sometimes  a  choice 
few  too  much  prized  to  be  plucked  ;  an  orchard  of 
proportioned  size  ;  a  cheese-press,  often  supported  by 
some  tree  near  the  door ;  a  cluster  of  embowering 
sycamores  for  summer  shade  ;  with  a.  tall  fir,  through 
which  the  winds  sing  when  other  trees  are  leafless  ; 


112  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

the  little  rill  or  household  spout  murmuring  in  all 
seasons  ; — combine  these  incidents  and  images  to- 
gether, and  you  have  the  representative  idea  of  a 
mountain-cottage  in  this  country  so  beautifully  formed 
in  itself,  and  sa  richly  adorned  by  the  hand  of  Nature. 

William  Wordsworth. 


cows    IN   THE    POOL. 


*  Hollows  through  which  swollen  yellowish  streams  meander,  dank 
meadows  wherein  fat  kine  browse  and  ruminate.' 


• 


ENGLISH    LANDSCAPE. 

"  i  ^HE  landscape  is  always  the  same,  consisting  of 
meadows  divided  by  hedgerows  and  large  trees 
standing  at  intervals.  The  country  is  all  verdure;  one's 
eyes  are  surfeited  and  satiated  with  it,  and  this  is  the 
most  powerful  sentient  impression  which  I  have  brought 
back  from  England.  It  is  said  that  a  view  extending 
over  forty  miles  in  any  direction  can  be  had  from  the 
top  of  the  extensive  height  which  we  are  crossing ;  the 
prospect  is  a  mass  of  green,  there  are  no  woods,  only 
scattered  clumps  of  trees,  fields  of  beetroot,  clover, 
hops,  and  peas ;  bushy  parks ;  hollows  through  which 
swollen  yellowish  streams  meander,  dank  meadows 
wherein  fat  kine  browse  and  ruminate.  Perennially 
fresh  grass  super-abounds  ;  hence  the  large  product  of 
milk  and  meat ;  when  contrasted  with  the  bread,  wine 
and  vegetables  which  form  the  principal  diet  of  our 
peasants,  it  will  be  seen  that  in  this  respect  the  Eng- 
lishman resembles  a  Dutchman  more  closely  than  a 
Frenchman.     A  Paul  Potter  or  a  Ruysdael  would  find 


ii8  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

subjects  for  pictures  here.  The  over-cast  sky  is  not 
lacking  in  beauty,  but  is  filled  with  grey  or  blackish 
clouds  moving  slowly  over  a  background  of  motionless 
vapour.  At  intervals  on  the  horizon,  the  prospect  is 
obscured  by  a  shower  and  all  these  tints  are  softened 
and  delicately  and  sadly  commingled. 

Our  path  lies  across  deserted  wild  commons  where, 
at  intervals,  a  lonely  horse  may  be  seen  feeding.  This 
is  the  primeval  soil  covered  with  furze  and  heath  ;  its 
bounds  have  been  narrowed  generation  after  genera- 
tion, civilization  having  devoured  it,  like  a  flowing  tide, 
and  left  merely  fragments.  How  much  toil  has  been 
expended  in  turning  it  into  pasturage  or  a  kitchen 
garden  and  how  great  the  patience  and  effort  required 
to  convert  it  to  man's  use !  Those  who  laboured  have 
succeeded,  and  every  century  since  history  began  has 
seen  thousands  of  acres  of  open  common  converted 
into  enclosed  fields.  It  looked  better  in  its  original 
state  ;  its  thorny  or  wild  herbs,  its  wan  or  dark  colours 
and  the  hue  of  its  flowers  were  more  in  keeping  with 
the  aspect  of  the  sky.  This  reclaimed  wilderness  now 
bears  too  clearly  the  imprint  of  human  industry  ;  there 
is  too  much  regularity ;  the  colours  are  false  or  dis- 
cordant ;  the  turnip  leaves  have  a  purplish  or  harsh 
green  ;  the  feathery  plants  produce  too  dazzling  or 
fleeting  an  effect  in  the  sunshine,  and  one  feels  that 
they  owe  their  presence  to  man  and  that  their  life  is 
artificial.  The  country  resembles  a  vast  factory  of 
fodder,  the  court-yard  of  a  dairy  or  a  slaughter-house, 


ENGLISH    LANDSCAPE.  119 

and  one  declines  from  ideas  of  the  picturesque  to  ideas 
of  utility.  Yet  it  must  be  admitted  that,  as  man  lives 
on  mutton,  the  latter  are  equal  to  the  former,  and 
barren  land  rendered  fruitful  is  a  fine  sight. 

We  took  a  country  walk  and  passed  through  two 
villages ;  there  was  a  downpour  every  two  hours. 
This  brings  to  mind  the  English  saying :  '  When  it  is 
fair  carry  your  umbrella  ;  when  it  rains,  do  as  you 
please.'  Yet  the  result  of  this  humidity  is  lovely  in 
the  sunlight ;  the  grass  has  a  delicious  freshness  and 
novelty.  The  rain-drops  rolling  down  it  shine  like 
pearls ;  an  entire  meadow  glistens  under  a  flash  of 
sunshine  and  its  train  of  yellow  and  white  flowers 
seems  transfused  with  light.  The  sky,  however, 
remains  flecked  with  clouds  which,  growing  dark  or 
violet  hued,  blend  at  a  quarter  of  a  league  ;  there  is  a 
constant  interchange  between  the  moistened  sky  and 
the  moistened  earth  and  the  contrast  is  very  great 
between  the  vivid  colour  of  the  soil  and  the  mixed 
tints  of  the  atmosphere.  One's  eyes  follow  the  vary- 
ing colours  and  the  vague  motions  of  the  general  exha- 
lation moving  and  breaking  up  along  the  hedgerows 
like  a  fragment  of  muslin.  A  gentle  breeze  bends  and 
balances  the  foliage  of  the  great  trees,  and  one  hears 
the  soft  sound  of  the  drops  pattering  upon  their 
pyramid. 

H.  A.    Taine. 


DONKEYS    ON   THE    HEATH. 


'His  good,  rough,  native,  pine-apple  coating.' 


THE  ASS. 

l\/r  R.  COLLIER,  in  his  'Poetical  Decameron 
IV J.  (Third  Conversation),  notices  a  tract  printed 
in  1595,  with  the  author's  initials  only,  A.  B.,  entitled 
*  The  Noblenesse  of  the  Asse ;  a  work  rare,  learned, 
and  excellent.'  He  has  selected  the  following  pretty 
passage  from  it : — '  He  (the  ass)  refuseth  no  burden  : 
he  goes  whither  he  is  sent,  without  any  contradiction. 
He  lifts  not  his  foote  against  any  one ;  he  bytes  not  ; 
he  is  no  fugitive,  nor  malicious  affected.  He  doth  all 
things  in  good  sort,  and  to  his  liking  that  hath  cause 
to  employ  him.  If  strokes  be  given  him,  he  cares 
not  for  them  ;  and,  as  our  modern  poet  singeth, — 

"  Thou  wouldst  (perhaps)  he  should  become  thy  foe, 
And  to  that  end  dost  beat  him  many  times  : 
He  cares  not  for  himselfe,  much  less  thy  blow." ' 

Certainly  Nature,  foreseeing  the  cruel  usage  which 
this  useful  servant  to  man  should  receive  at  man's 
hand,  did  prudendy  in  furnishing  him  with  a  tegument 


126  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

impervious  to  ordinary  stripes.  The  malice  of  a  child 
or  a  weak  hand  can  make  feeble  impressions  on  him. 
His  back  offers  no  mark  to  a  puny  foeman.  To  a 
common  whip  or  switch  his  hide  presents  an  absolute 
insensibility.  You  might  as  well  pretend  to  scourge 
a  schoolboy  with  a  tough  pair  of  leather  breeches  on. 
His  jerkin  is  well  fortified  ;  and  therefore  the  coster- 
mongers,  'between  the  years  1790  and  1800,'  did 
more  politicly  than  piously  in  lifting  up  a  part  of  his 
upper  garment.  1  well  remember  that  beastly  and 
bloody  custom.  I  have  often  longed  to  see  one  of 
those  refiners  in  discipline  himself  at  the  cart's  tail, 
with  just  such  a  convenient  spot  laid  bare  to  the 
tender  mercies  of  the  whipster.  But,  since  Nature 
has  resumed  her  rights,  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  this 
patient  creature  does  not  suffer  to  extremities ;  and 
that,  to  the  savages  who  still  belabour  his  poor  car- 
cass with  their  blows  (considering  the  sort  of  anvil 
they  are  laid  upon),  he  might  in  some  sort,  if  he  could 
speak,  exclaim  with  the  philosopher,  '  Lay  on  :  you 
beat  but  upon  the  case  of  Anaxarchus.' 

Contemplating  this  natural  safeguard,  this  fortified 
exterior,  it  is  with  pain  I  view  the  sleek,  foppish, 
combed  and  curried  person  of  this  animal  as  he  is 
disnaturalized  at  watering-places,  &c.,  where  they 
affect  to  make  a  palfrey  of  him.  Fie  on  all  such 
sophistications!  It  will  never  do,  master  groom. 
Something  of  his  honest,  shaggy  exterior  will  still 
peep   up   in   spite   of  you,   his   good,    rough,   native, 


THE    ASS.  127 

pine-apple  coating.  You  cannot  'refine  a  scorpion 
into  a  fish,  though  you  rinse  it  and  scour  it  with  ever 
so  cleanly  cookery.* 

And  truly,  when  one  thinks  on  the  suit  of  impene- 
trable armour  with  which  Nature  (like  Vulcan  to 
another  Achilles)  has  provided  him,  these  subtile 
enemies  to  our  repose  would  have  shown  some  dex- 
terity in  getting  into  his  quarters.  As  the  bogs  of 
Ireland  by  tradition  expel  toads  and  reptiles,  he  may 
well  defy  these  small  deer  in  his  fastnesses.  It  seems 
the  latter  had  not  arrived  at  the  exquisite  policy  adopted 
by  the  human  vermin  'between  1790  and  1800.' 

But  the  most  singular  and  delightful  gift  of  the  ass, 
according  to  the  writer  of  this  pamphlet,  is  his  voice, 
the  'goodly,  sweet,  and  continual  brayings'  of  which, 
'  whereof  they  forme  a  melodious  and  proportionable 
kinde  of  musicke,'  seems  to  have  affected  him  with  no 
ordinary  pleasure.  '  Nor  thinke  I,'  he  adds,  'that  any 
of  our  immoderate  musicians  can  deny  but  that  their 
song  is  full  of  exceeding  pleasure  to  be  heard ;  because 
therein  is  to  be  discerned  both  concord,  discord,  sing- 
ing in  the  meane,  the  beginning  to  sing  in  large  com- 
passe,  then  following  into  rise  and  fall,  the  halfe-note, 
whole  note,  musicke  of  five  voices,  firme  singing  by 
four  voices,  three  together,  or  one  voice  and  a  halfe. 
Then  their  variable  contrarities  amongst  them,  when  one 
delivers  forth  a  long  tenor  or  a  short,  the  pausing  for 
time,  breathing  in  measure,  breaking  the  minim  or  very 
least  moment  of  time.     Last  of  all,  to  heare  the  musicke 


128  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

of  five  or  six  voices  chaunged  to  so  many  of  asses  is 
amongst  them  to  heare  a  song  of  world  without  end.' 

There  is  no  accounting  for  ears,  or  for  that  laudable 
enthusiasm  with  which  an  author  is  tempted  to  invest 
a  favourite  subject  with  the  most  incompatible  perfec- 
tions. I  should  otherwise,  for  my  own  taste,  have 
been  inclined  rather  to  have  given  a  place  to  these 
extraordinary  musicians  at  that  banquet  of  nothing- 
less-than-sweet-sounds  imagined  by  old  Jeremy  Collier 
(Essays,  1698,  part  ii.  on  Music,)  where,  after  describ- 
ing the  inspiriting  effects  of  martial  music  in  a  battle, 
he  hazards  an  ingenious  conjecture  whether  a  sort  of 
anti-music  might  not  be  invented,  which  should  have 
quite  the  contrary  effect  of  '  sinking  the  spirits,  shak- 
ing the  nerves,  curdling  the  blood,  and  inspiring 
despair  and  cowardice  and  consternation.  'Tis  prob- 
ble,'  he  says,  '-  the  roaring  of  lions,  the  warbling  of 
cats  and  screech-owls,  together  with  a  mixture  of  the 
howling  of  dogs,  judiciously  imitated  and  compounded, 
might  go  a  great  way  in  this  invention.'  The  dose, 
we  confess,  is  pretty  potent,  and  skilfully  enough  pre- 
pared. But  what  shall  we  say  to  the  Ass  of  Silenus, 
who,  if  we  may  trust  to  classic  lore,  by  his  own  proper 
sounds,  without  thanks  to  cat  or  screech-owl,  dismayed 
and  put  to  rout  a  whole  army  of  giants  ?  Here  was 
anti-music  with  a  vengeance ;  a  whole  Pan-Dis-Har- 
monicon  in  a  single  lungs  of  leather! 

Charles  Lamb. 


THE  COTTAGE  ON  THE  BEACH. 


K 


'  England  is  anchored  at  the  side  of  Europe,  and  right  in  the 
heart  of  the  modern  world.' 


ENGLAND. 

''  I  ^HE  territory  has  a  singular  perfection.  The 
climate  is  warmer  by  many  degrees  than  it  is 
entitled  to  by  latitude.  Neither  hot  nor  cold,  there 
is  no  hour  in  the  whole  year  when  one  cannot  work. 
Here  is  no  winter,  but  such  days  as  we  have  in 
Massachusetts  in  November,  a  temperature  which 
makes  no  exhausting  demand  on  human  strength, 
but  allows  the  attainment  of  the  largest  stature. 
Charles  the  Second  said,  'it  invited  men  abroad 
more  days  in  the  year  and  more  hours  in  the  day 
than  any  other  country.'  Then  England  has  all  the 
materials  of  a  working  country  except  wood.^  The 
constant  rain, — a  rain  with  every  tide,  in  some  parts 
of  the  island, — keeps  its  multitude  of  rivers  full,  and 
brings  agricultural  production  up  to  the  highest  point. 
It  has  plenty  of  water,  of  stone,  of  potter's  clay, 
of  coal,  of  salt,  and  of  iron.  The  land  naturally 
abounds  with  game,  immense  heaths  and  downs  are 
paved  with   quails,    grouse,    and    woodcock,    and    the 


134  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

shores  are  animated  by  water  birds.  The  rivers  and 
the  surrounding  sea  spawn  with  fish  ;  there  are  salmon 
for  the  rich,  and  sprats  and  herrings  for  the  poor.  In 
the  northern  lochs,  the  herring  are  in  innumerable 
shoals ;  at  one  season,  the  country  people  say,  the 
lakes  contain  one  part  water  and  two  parts  fish. 

Factitious  climate,  factitious  position.  England 
resembles  a  ship  in  its  shape,  and,  if  it  were  one, 
its  best  admiral  could  not  have  worked  it,  or  anchored 
it  in  a  more  judicious  or  effective  position.  Sir  John 
Herschel  said,  '  London  was  the  centre  of  the  terrene 
globe.'  The  shopkeeping  nation,  to  use  a  shop  word, 
has  a  good  stand.  The  old  Venetians  pleased  them- 
selves with  the  flattery,  that  Venice  was  in  45°, 
midway  between  the  poles  and  the  line  ;  as  if  that 
were  an  imperial  centrality.  Long  of  old,  the  Greeks 
fancied  Delphi  the  navel  of  the  earth,  in  their 
favourite  mode  of  fabling  the  earth  to  be  an  animal. 
The  Jews  believed  Jerusalem  to  be  the  centre.  I 
have  seen  a  kratometric  chart  designed  to  show  that 
the  city  of  Philadelphia  was  in  the  same  thermic 
belt,  and,  by  inference,  in  the  same  belt  of  empire, 
as  the  cities  of  Athens,  Rome,  and  London.  It  was 
drawn  by  a  patriotic  Philadelphian,  and  was  exam- 
ined with  pleasure,  under  his  showing,  by  the  inhabi- 
tants of  Chestnut  Street.  But,  when  carried  to 
Charleston,  to  New  Orleans,  and  to  Boston,  it  some- 
how failed  to  convince  the  ingenious  scholars  of  all 
those  capitals. 


ENGLAND.  135 

But  England  is  anchored  at  the  side  of  Europe, 
and  right  in  the  heart  of  the  modern  world.  The 
sea,  which,  according  to  Virgil's  famous  line,  divided 
the  poor  Britons  utterly  from  the  world,  proved  to 
be  the  ring  of  marriage  with  all  nations.  It  is  not 
down  in  the  books, — it  is  written  only  in  the  geologic 
strata, — that  fortunate  day  when  a  wave  of  the  Ger- 
man Ocean  burst  the  old  isthmus  which  joined  Kent 
and  Cornwall  to  France,  and  gave  to  this  fragment  of 
Europe  its  impregnable  sea  wall,  cutting  off  an  island 
of  eight  hundred  miles  in  length  with  an  irregular 
breadth  reaching  to  three  hundred  miles ;  a  territory 
large  enough  for  independence  enriched  with  every 
seed  of  national  power,  so  near,  that  it  can  see  the 
harvests  of  the  continent ;  and  so  far,  that  who  would 
cross  the  strait  must  be  an  expert  mariner,  ready 
for  tempests.  As  America,  Europe,  and  Asia  lie, 
these  Britons  have  precisely  the  best  commercial 
position  in  the  whole  planet,  and  are  sure  of  a  market 
for  all  the  goods  they  can  manufacture.  And  to  make 
these  advantages  avail,  the  river  Thames  must  dig  its 
spacious  outlet  to  the  sea  from  the  heart  of  the  king- 
dom, giving  road  and  landing  to  innumerable  ships, 
and  all  the  conveniency  to  trade,  that  a  people  so 
skilful  and  sufficient  in  economizing  water-front  by 
docks,  warehouses,  and  lighters  required.  When 
James  the  First  declared  his  purpose  of  punishing 
London  by  removing  his  Court,  the  Lord  Mayor 
replied,    'that,   in   removing   his   royal  presence   from 


136  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

his    lieges,    they    hoped    he    would    leave    them    the 
Thames.' 

With  its  fruits,  and  wares,  and  money,  must  its 
civil  influence  radiate.  It  is  a  singular  coincidence  to 
this  geographic  centrality,  the  spiritual  centrality,  which 
Emanuel  Swedenborg  ascribes  to  the  people.  '  For 
the  English  nation,  the  best  of  them  are  in  the  centre 
of  all  Christians,  because  they  have  interior  intellectual 
light.  This  appears  conspicuously  in  the  spiritual 
world.  This  light  they  derive  from  the  liberty  of 
speaking  and  writing,  and  thereby  of  thinking.' 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


# 


AT    THE    COTTAGE    DOOR, 


'Let  us  once  more  see  lords  and  gentlemen  beloved  by  the 
common  people;  once  more  see  happy  cottages.' 


STURGES  BOURNE'S  BILLS. 

TV  /TAR K,  and  never  leave  out  of  mind,  that  the 
^^^  POOR  LAW  of  Elizabeth  gave  them  a 
compensation,  lor  the  tithes  and  chuj'ch  lands  which 
the  aristocracy  had  taken  azuaj  from  thevi.  Let  this 
always  be  borne  in  mind. 

By  various  acts  of  the  late  Parliaments,  this  com- 
pensation was,  by  degrees,  craftily  diminished,  till,  at 
last,  came  Sturges  Bourne's  bills ;  came  the  aliena- 
tion of  the  voices  of  the  middle  class  in  the  vestries  ; 
came  the  'select  vestries^  with  power  to  have  '  HIRED 
OVERSEERS';  came,  in  short,  the  power  of  the 
rich,  almost  to  starve  the  necessitous  at  their  pleasure, 
and  to  compel  the  labourers  to  work,  in  fact,  for  such 
wages  as  they  chose  to  give  them.  Thus  the  compact 
between  the  landholders  and  the  labourers  was  broken  ; 
thus  the  latter  were  deprived  of  the  compensation 
awarded  by  the  act  of  Elizabeth  ;  and  thus  were  the 
harmony  and  the  happiness  of  the  agricultural  com- 
munity in  England  destroyed.     Hence  all  the  turmoil ; 


142  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

hence  the  sleepless  nights  to  the  farmer,  and  hence 
that  farewell  which  he  may  bid  to  peace  until  the 
COMPENSATION  be  fully  and  fairly  restored  to  the 
people.  It  must  be  restored  ;  it  shall  be  restored,  or 
I  will  end  my  life  in  the  endeavour  to  cause  the 
restoration.  The  first  step  to  be  taken  would  be 
to  repeal  Sturges  Bourne's  bills.  But  instead  of  that 
there  was  this  Ministry,  two  years  ago,  putting  this 
very  Sturges  Bourne  into  a  commission  to  try  the 
rioting  labourers,  and  here  they  are,  now,  again,  with 
this  very  same  Sturses  Bourne,  in  what  they  call 
their  'poor  law  commission!  Jiere  will  I  take  my 
stand ;  whatever  I  have  left  of  labour  in  me  shall  be 
exerted  till  this  object  be  accomplished,  and  until  the 
young  people  be  back  again  in  the  farmhouses ;  to 
effect  which  latter,  would  now,  with  a  wise  and  just 
Government,  be  more  than  the  work  of  a  single  year. 
Here  will  I  hold.  -If  there  be  a  God  above,  'and  that 
there  is,  all  nature  cries  aloud  in  all  her  works,  he  must 
delight  in  justice,'  and  justice  says,  that  it  is  most 
damnable  tyranny  to  say  or  to  do  that  which  says, 
that  a  man  ought  to  be  called  upon  when  necessary 
to  venture  his  life  in  defence  of  the  land  of  his  birth, 
and  yet,  that  he  has  no  right  to  be  upon,  and  to  have 
a  living  out  of,  that  same  land.  This  is  my  great 
point,  the  best  energies  of  my  mind  shall  be  directed 
towards  its  accomplishment,  and  I  have  the  pleadings 
of  reason,  of  justice,  of  human  nature  itself,  so  loudly 
on   my  side,   that  my  efforts   must  be  crowned   with 


STURGES    bourne's    BILLS.      143 

success.  The  question  for  the  aristocracy  to  decide 
upon,  is  simply  this  :  Will  they  give  way  and  give  up 
Sturges  Bourne's  bills  to  begin  with,  or  will  they 
not  ?  I  will  soon  put  them  to  the  test ;  and  let  them 
remember,  that  their  decision  will  be  final.  The 
Edinburgh  Review,  that  base  creature  of  the  Whig- 
faction,  has  just  expressed  its  alarm,  at  the  wild 
notions  that  some  of  the  people  seem  to  have,  about 
a  general  proprietorship  in  the  land,  and  about  a 
division  of  it  amongst  the  whole  of  the  community. 
And,  whence  has  this  wild  notion  come  ?  Why,  from 
the  doctrines  of  the  'feelosoficaV  villains,  who  have 
maintained  the  doctrine,  of  the  right  of  the  land- 
owners to  '  clear '  the  land  of  the  people ;  or,  which 
is  the  same  thing,  to  deny  them  a  sufficiency  to  live 
upon  out  of  the  produce  of  the  land.  Extremes  meet, 
in  this,  as  in  all  other  cases  ;  and  this  doctrine,  being 
such  an  outrageous  insult  to  common  sense  and  to 
common  humanity,  men  naturally  rush  on  to  the  oppo- 
site extreme.  I,  for  my  part,  have  always  deprecated 
the  latter  extreme ;  but  if  at  last  we  be  compelled  ;  if 
the  injustice  of  the  landowners  push  us,  to  acknow- 
ledge their  right  of  '  clearing '  the  country  of  us,  or 
compelling  us  to  starve  amidst  abundance  raised  by 
our  own  hands ;  if  they  push  us  to  this  acknowledg- 
ment, or  to  insist  upon  our  general  right  of  participa- 
tion, I  am  decidedly  for  the  latter.  Better,  therefore, 
yield  in  time  ;  better  repeal  Sturges  Bourne's  bills 
to  begin  with,  and  let  us  once  more  see  lords  and 


144  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

gentlemen  beloved  by  the  common  people ;  once  more 
see  happy  cottages,  cheerful  farm-houses,  and  farmers 
able  to  go  to  sleep  without  starting  every  moment  at 
the  thought  of  fires. 

William  Cobbett. 


A   WINTER    PIECE. 


*  I  do  not  care  much  for  snow  in  town ;  but  in  the  country  it  is 
ever  a  marvel.' 


WINTER. 

\  7^  7  INTER  in  the  country,  without  snow,  is  like 
a  summer  without  the  rose.  Snow  is  winter's 
specialty,  its  crowning  glory,  its  last  exquisite  grace. 
Snow  comes  naturally  in  winter,  as  foliage  comes  in 
summer ;  but  although  one  may  have  been  familiar 
with  it  during  forty  seasons,  it  always  takes  one  with 
a  certain  pleased  surprise  and  sense  of  strangeness. 
In  each  winter  the  falling  of  the  first  snowflake  is  an 
event ;  it  lays  hold  of  the  imagination.  A  child  does 
not  ordinarily  take  notice  of  the  coming  of  leaves 
and  flowers,  but  it  will  sit  at  a  window  for  an  hour, 
watching  the  descent  of  the  dazzling  apparition,  with 
odd  thouorhts  and  fancies  in  the  little  brain.  Snow 
attracts  the  child  as  the  plumage  of  some  rare  and 
foreign  bird  would.  The  most  prosaic  of  mortals, 
when  he  comes  downstairs  of  a  morning,  and  finds 
a  new  soft,  white  world,  instead  of  the  past  familiar 
black  one,  is  conscious  of  some  obscure  feeling  of 
pleasure,  the  springs  of  which  he  might  find  it  diffi- 


ISO  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

cult  to  explain.  I  do  not  care  much  for  snow  in  town  ; 
but  in  the  country  it  is  ever  a  marvel  :  it  wipes  out 
all  boundary  lines  and  distinctions  between  fields ;  it 
clothes  the  skeletons  of  trees  with  a  pure  wonder ; 
through  the  strangely  transfigured  landscape  the 
streams  run  black  as  ink  and  without  a  sound  ;  and 
over  all  the  cold  blue  frosty  heaven  smiles  as  if  in 
very  pleasure  at  its  work.  On  such  a  day  how  wind- 
less and  composed  the  atmosphere,  how  bright  the 
frosty  sunlight,  from  what  a  distance  comes  a  shout 
or  the  rusty  caw  of  a  rook !  '  Earth  hath  not  any- 
thing to  show  more  fair.'  And  somehow  the  season 
seems  to  infuse  a  spirit  of  jollity  into  everything.  As 
I  walk  about  I  fancy  the  men  I  meet  look  ruddier 
and  healthier ;  that  they  talk  in  louder  and  cheerier 
tones  ;  that  their  chests  heave  with  a  sincerer  laughter. 
They  are  more  charitable  I  know.  Winter  binds 
'  earth-born  companions  and  fellow  mortals '  together, 
from  man  to  red-breast,  and  interior  domestic  life  takes 
a  new  charm  from  the  strange  pallor  outside.  The 
good  creature  Fire  feels  exhilarated,  and  licks  with 
its  pliant  tongue  as  if  pleased  and  flattered.  Sofa 
and  slippers  become  luxuries.  The  tea-urn  purrs  like 
a  fondled  cat.  In  those  long  warm-lighted  evenings, 
books  communicate  more  of  their  inmost  souls  than 
they  do  in  summer ;  and  a  moment's  glance  at  the 
village  church-roof,  sparkling  to  the  frosty  moon,  adds 
warmth  to  fleecy  blankets,  and  a  depth  to  repose. 
The  white  flakes  are  coming  at  last!     Stretch  out 


WINTER.  151 

your  hand — the  meteor  falls  into  it  lighter  than  a  rose- 
leaf,  and  is  in  a  moment  a  tear.  It  is  as  fragile  as 
beautiful.  How  innocent  in  appearance  the  new- 
fallen  snow,  the  surface  of  which  a  descending  leaf 
would  dimple  almost !  and  yet  there  is  nothing  fiercer, 
deadlier,  crueller,  more  treacherous.  On  wild  uplands 
and  moors  it  covers  roads  and  landmarks,  and  makes 
the  wanderer  travel  hopeless  miles  till  he  sinks  down 
exhausted ;  it  steeps  his  senses  in  a  pleasing  stupor, 
till  he  fancies  he  sees  the  light  of  his  far-off  dwelling, 
and  hears  the  voices  of  his  children  who  will  be 
orphans  before  the  mom  :  it  smites  him  on  the  mouth 
and  face  as  he  dies,  and  then  covers  him  up,  softly  as 
with  kisses,  tenderly  as  with  eider  down,  like  a  sleek- 
white  murderer  as  it  is.  In  alliance  with  the  demon 
of  wind  it  will  drift  and  spin  along  the  mountain 
sides,  and  in  a  couple  of  hours  a  hundred  sheep  and 
their  shepherd  are  smothered  in  a  corry  on  Ben  Nevis. 
Welded  by  frost  into  an  avalanche,  it  slides  from  its 
dizzy  hold,  and  falls  on  an  Alpine  village,  crushing  it 
to  powder.  A  snowflake  is  weak  in  itself,  but  in 
multitudes  it  is  omnipotent.  These  terrible  crystals 
have  stayed  the  marches  of  conquerors  and  broken 
the  strength  of  empires.  The  innumerous  flakes 
flying  forth  on  the  Russian  wind  are  deadlier  than 
bullets  :  they  bite  more  bitterly  than  Cossack  lances. 
In  front,  behind,  on  every  side,  for  leagues  and  leagues 
they  fall  in  the  dim  twilight,  flinging  themselves  in 
front  of  the  weary  soldier's  foot,  clogging  the  wheels 


152  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

of  cannon,  making  the  banner  an  icy  sheet,  stilling  the 
drum  that  beat  the  charge.  O  weary  soldiers  of  the 
Empire,  eyes  that  saw  the  sun  of  Austerlitz,  hearts 
that  love  Napoleon — to  this  grim  battle  with  winter 
Lodi  and  Areola  were  holiday  parades !  The  Loire 
will  murmur  from  antique  town  to  town,  through 
pleasant  summer  lands  of  France,  till  it  rests  in  the 
Spanish  sea ;  vines  stretched  from  pole  to  pole  will 
glow  in  setting  suns ;  girls  will  dance  at  village  festi- 
vals ;  but  for  you,  never  more  the  murmuring  river, 
nor  the  ripening  grape,  nor  the  dancing  girl's  waist 
and  smile.  For  you  the  deadly  snow-kisses,  the  sleep 
and  the  dreams  that  bring  death,  the  dreadful  embalm- 
ing of  frosts,  potent  as  the  spices  that  preserve 
Pharaoh. 

Alexander  Smith. 


THE   WATERING-PLACE, 


*  It  is  a  little  sheltered  scene,  retiring,  as  it  were,  from  the  village 
.  with  a  great  pond  in  one  corner.' 


\  ■  t'lil'. 


VIOLETING. 

1\ /TARCH  27TH. — It  is  a  dull  grey  morning,  with 
a  dewy  feeling  in  the  air ;  fresh,  but  not  windy  ; 
cool,  but  not  cold  ; — the  very  day  for  a  person  newly 
arrived  from  the  heat,  the  glare,  the  noise,  and  the 
fever  of  London,  to  plunge  into  the  remotest  laby- 
rinths of  the  country,  and  regain  the  repose  of  mind, 
the  calmness  of  heart,  which  has  been  lost  in  that 
great  Babel.  I  must  go  violeting — it  is  a  necessity — 
and  I  must  go  alone  :  the  sound  of  a  voice,  even  my 
Lizzy's,  the  touch  of  Mayflower's  head,  even  the 
boundinof  of  her  elastic  foot,  would  disturb  the  serenitv 
of  feeling  which  I  am  trying  to  recover,  I  shall  go 
quite  alone,  with  my  little  basket,  twisted  like  a  bee- 
hive, which  I  love  so  well,  because  she  gave  it  to  me, 
and  kept  sacred  to  violets  and  to  those  whom  I  love ; 
and  I  shall  get  out  of  the  high  road  the  moment  I 
can.  I  would  not  meet  any  one  just  now,  even  of 
those  whom   I  best  like  to  meet. 

Ha! — Is  not  that  group — a  gentleman  on  a  blood- 


158  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

horse,  a  lady  keeping  pace  with  him  so  gracefully  and 
easily — see  how  prettily  her  veil  waves  in  the  wind 
created  by  her  own  rapid  motion ! — and  that  gay, 
gallant  boy,  on  the  gallant  white  Arabian,  curveting 
at  their  side,  but  ready  to  spring  before  them  every 
instant — is  not  that  chivalrous-looking  party  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  M.  and  dear  B.  ?  No !  the  servant  is  in  a  dif- 
ferent livery.  It  is  some  of  the  ducal  family,  and  one 
of  their  young  Etonians.  I  may  go  on.  I  shall  meet 
no  one  now ;  for  I  have  fairly  left  the  road,  and  am 
crossing  the  lea  by  one  of  those  wandering  paths, 
amidst  the  gorse,  and  the  heath,  and  the  low  broom, 
which  the  sheep  and  lambs  have  made — a  path  turfy, 
elastic,  thymy,  and  sweet,  even  at  this  season. 

We  have  the  good  fortune  to  live  in  an  unenclosed 
parish,  and  may  thank  the  wise  obstinacy  of  two  or 
three  sturdy  farmers,  and  the  lucky  unpopularity  of  a 
ranting  madcap  lord  of  the  manor,  for  preserving  the 
delicious  green  patches,  the  islets  of  wilderness  amidst 
cultivation,  which  form,  perhaps,  the  peculiar  beauty 
of  English  scenery.  The  common  that  I  am  passing 
now — the  lea,  as  it  is  called — is  one  of  the  loveliest  of 
these  favoured  spots.  It  is  a  little  sheltered  scene, 
retiring,  as  it  were,  from  the  village ;  sunk  amidst 
higher  lands,  hills  would  be  almost  too  grand  a  word : 
edged  on  one  side  by  one  gay  high-road,  and  inter- 
sected by  another ;  and  surrounded  by  a  most  pic- 
turesque confusion  of  meadows,  cottages,  farms,  and 
orchards ;  with  a  great  pond  in  one  corner,  unusually 


VIOLETING.  159 

bright  and  clear,  giving  a  delightful  cheerfulness  and 
daylight  to  the  picture.  The  swallows  haunt  that 
pond  ;  so  do  the  children.  There  is  a  merry  group 
round  it  now ;  I  have  seldom  seen  it  without  one. 
Children  love  water,  clear,  bright,  sparkling  water; 
it  excites  and  feeds  their  curiosity  ;  it  is  motion  and 
life. 

The  path  that  I  am  treading  leads  to  a  less  lively 
spot,  to  that  large  heavy  building  on  one  side  of  the 
common,  whose  solid  wings,  jutting  out  far  beyond 
the  main  body,  occupy  three  sides  of  a  square,  and 
give  a  cold,  shadowy  look  to  the  court.  On  one  side 
is  a  gloomy  garden,  with  an  old  man  digging  in  it, 
laid  out  in  straight  dark  beds  of  vegetables,  potatoes, 
cabbages,  onions,  beans ;  all  earthy  and  mouldy  as  a 
newly  dug  grave.  Not  a  flower  or  flowering  shrub ! 
Not  a  rose-tree  or  currant-bush  !  Nothing  but  for 
sober,  melancholy  use.  Oh,  how  different  from  the 
long  irregular  slips  of  the  cottage  gardens,  with  their 
gay  bunches  of  polyanthuses  and  crocuses,  their  wall- 
flowers sending  sweet  odours  through  the  narrow 
casement,  and  their  gooseberry-trees  bursting  into 
a  brilliancy  of  leaf,  whose  vivid  greenness  has  the 
effect  of  a  blossom  on  the  eye !  Oh,  how  different ! 
On  the  other  side  of  this  gloomy  abode  is  a  meadow 
of  that  deep,  intense  emerald  hue,  which  denotes  the 
presence  of  stagnant  water,  surrounded  by  willows  at 
regular  distances,  and  like  the  garden,  separated  from 
the  common  by  a  wide,  moat-like  ditch.     That  is  the 


i6o  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

parish  workhouse.  All  about  it  is  solid,  substantial, 
useful ; — but  so  dreary !  so  cold !  so  dark  !  There 
are  children  in  the  court,  and  yet  all  is  silent.  I 
always  hurry  past  that  place  as  if  it  were  a  prison. 
Restraint,  sickness,  age,  extreme  poverty,  misery 
which  I  have  no  power  to  remove  or  alleviate, — these 
are  the  ideas,  the  feelings,  which  the  sight  of  those 
walls  excites ;  yet,  perhaps,  if  not  certainly,  they 
contain  less  of  that  extreme  desolation  than  the  mor- 
bid fancy  is  apt  to  paint.  There  will  be  found  order, 
cleanliness,  food,  clothing,  warmth,  refuge  for  the 
homeless,  medicine  and  attendance  for  the  sick,  rest 
and  sufficiency  for  old  age,  and  sympathy,  the  true 
and  active  sympathy  which  the  poor  show  to  the 
poor,  for  the  unhappy.  There  may  be  worse  places 
than  a  parish  workhouse — and  yet  I  hurry  past  it. 
The  feeling,  the  prejudice,   will  not  be  controlled. 

Mary  Russell  Mitford. 


AT    SUNSET. 


M 


'That  long,   slow-deepening  twilight   through  which  the  day  in 
England  lapses  gently  into  darkness.' 


F  ^  ,7*   •>     ^ 


''.>  ••  ■•'"^  r-*;  "-.♦ 


THE  ENGLISH  CLIMATE. 

nPHE  low  temperature  of  the  country  enables  the 
people  to  bear  the  dampness,  and  even  to  find  it 
conducive  to  health  and  enjoyment  of  life.  '  Let  it  be 
cold,'  said  an  Englishman  to  me,  as  we  walked  from 
his  villa  to  the  train  through  a  chilling  drizzle,  'and 
I  care  little  if  it  is  damp.'  And  I  found  the  combina- 
tion, on  the  whole,  wholesome  and  not  unpleasant. 
But  if  England,  with  its  damp  atmosphere,  were  sub- 
ject to  our  extremes  of  heat  and  cold,  it  would  be 
almost  uninhabitable :  it  would  be  as  unhealthy  in 
winter  as  Labrador,  in  summer  as  India.  I  was  sur- 
prised to  see  the  freedom  with  which  doors  were  left 
open  for  the  entrance  of  the  air,  and  by  the  uncon- 
sciousness of  possible  harm  with  which  women  of  the 
lower  classes  in  the  country  went  about  in  cold  mist, 
or  even  in  rain,  without  bonnets  or  shawls.  For  as 
to  myself,  at  times  I  found  this  chilly  fog  pierce  to  the 
very  marrow  of  my  bones,  and  make  me  long  for  the 
fire  which  was  not  always  attainable.     And  when  I  did 


i66  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

have  it,  the  comfort  that  it  gave  me  was  not  so  great 
as  I  expected  it  would  be.  Fire  does  not  seem  to  be 
very  warm  in  England.  I  never  saw  a  really  hot 
one. 

One  effect  of  the  climate  of  England  (it  must,  I 
think,  be  the  climate)  is  the  mellowing  of  all  sights, 
and  particularly  of  all  sounds.  Life  there  seems 
softer,  richer,  sweeter,  than  it  is  with  us.  Bells  do 
not  clang  so  sharp  and  harsh  upon  the  ear.  True, 
they  are  not  rung  so  much  as  they  are  with  us.  Even 
in  London  on  Sunday  their  sound  is  not  obtrusive. 
Indeed,  the  only  bell  sound  in  the  great  city  of  which 
I  have  a  distinct  memory  is  Big  Ben's  delicious, 
mellow  boom.  In  country  walks  on  Sunday  the  dis- 
tant chimes  from  the  little  antique  spires  or  towers 
float  to  you  like  silver-tongued  voices  through  the 
still  air.  Your  own  voice  is  hushed  by  them  if  you 
are  with  a  companion,  and  you  walk  on  in  sweet  and 
silent  sadness.  I  shall  never  forget  the  soothing 
charm  of  the  Bolney  chime  in  Sussex,  which,  as  the 
sun  was  leaving  the  weald  to  that  long,  slow-deepen- 
ing twilight  through  which  the  day  in  England  lapses 
gently  into  darkness,  with  no  splendour  of  sunset 
obsequies,  I  heard  in  company  with  one  whose 
sagacious  lips,  then  hushed  for  a  moment,  are  silent 
now  forever.  These  English  country  chimes  are 
very  different  from  those  that  stun  our  ears  from 
Broadway  steeples.  They  are  simple,  and  yet  are 
not  formless  jangle  ;  but  the  performers  do  not  under- 


THE    ENGLISH    CLIMATE.         167 

take  to  play  opera  airs  affetuoso  and  con  expressione 
with  ropes  and  iron  hammers  upon  hollow  tons  of 
metal. 

Whether  I  was  favoured  by  the  English  climate  I 
do  not  know,  but  in  addition  to  this  soft,  sweet 
charm  which  the  air  seemed  to  give  to  everything 
that  was  to  be  seen  or  heard,  I  found  even  late 
autumn  there  as  verdant  and  as  variously  beautiful 
as  early  summer  is  with  us,  and  without  the  heat 
from  which  we  suffer.  In  Sussex  the  gardens  were 
all  abloom,  wild  flowers  lit  up  the  woods,  black- 
berries were  ripening  in  the  hedges,  birds  singing, 
and  everything  was  fresh  and  fragrant.  Among 
the  birds,  I  observed  the  thrush  and  the  robin- 
redbreast  ;  the  latter  not  that  tawny-breasted  variety 
of  the  singing  thrush  which  is  here  called  a  robin, 
but  a  little  bird  about  half  as  large,  with  a  thin, 
pointed  bill,  a  breast  of  crimson,  and  a  note  like 
a  loud  and  prolonged  chirrup.  It  would  be  charm- 
ing if  we  could  have  this  man-trusting  little  fea- 
thered fellow  with  us ;  but  I  fear  that  he  could  not 
bear  our  winters.  In  Warwickshire  I  found  roses 
blooming,  blooming  in  great  masses  half-way  up 
the  sides  of  a  two-story  cottage  on  the  road  from 
Stratford-on-Avon  to  Kenilworth  ;  and  this  was 
in  the  very  last  days  of  October.  True,  I  had 
only  a  few  days  before  shivered  through  a  rainy 
morning  drive  in  Essex,  when  the  chill  dampness 
seemed   to   strike   into   my   very   heart ;   but  on   the 


i68  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

whole  I  found  myself  under  English  skies  healthy, 
happy,  and  the  enjoyer  of  a  succession  of  new 
delights,  which  yet  seemed  to  me  mine  by  birth- 
right. 

Richard  Grant  White. 


THE    REAPERS. 


The  reapers,  that  with  whetted  sickles  stand, 
Gathering  the  faUing  ears  i'  th'  other  hand.' 


AN  ECLOGUE  TO  MASTER 
JONSON. 

Damon. 

T  N  those  indulgent  ears 

I  dare  unload  the  burden  of  my  fears. 
The  reapers,  that  with  whetted  sickles  stand, 
Gathering  the  falling  ears  i'  th'  other  hand, 
Though  they  endure  the  scorching  summer's  heat, 
Have  yet  some  wages  to  allay  their  sweat  ; 
The  lopper  that  doth  fell  the  sturdy  oak, 
Labours,  yet  has  good  pay  for  every  stroke ; 
The  ploughman  is  rewarded  :  only  we 
That  sing  are  paid  with  our  own  melody. 
Rich  churls  have  learnt  to  praise  us,  and  admire. 
But  have  not  learn't  to  think  us  worth  the  hire. 
So  toiling  ants,  perchance,  delight  to  hear 
The  summer  music  of  the  grasshopper, 
But  after  rather  let  him  starve  with  pain. 
Than  spare  him  from  their  store  one  single  grain. 


174  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

As  when  great  Juno's  beauteous  bird  displays 
Her  starry  tail,  the  boys  do  run  and  gaze 
At  her  proud  train  ;  so  look  they  nowadays 
On  poets,  and  do  think,  if  they  but  praise 
Or  pardon  what  we  sing,  enough  they  do  : 
Ay,  and  'tis  well  if  they  do  so  much,  too. 
My  rage  is  swell'd  so  high  I  cannot  speak  it, 
Had  I  Pan's  pipe,  or  thine,  I  now  should  break  it ! 

Tityrus. 
Let  moles  delight  in  earth,  swine  dunghills  rake. 
Crows  prey  on  carrion,  frogs  a  pleasure  take 
In  slimy  pools,  and  niggards  wealth  admire  ; 
But  we,  whose  souls  are  made  of  purer  fire, 
Have  other  aims.     Who  songs  for  gain  hath  made, 
Has  of  a  liberal  science  framed  a  trade. 
Hark  how  the  nightingale  in  yonder  tree, 
Hid  in  the  boughs,  warbles  melodiously 
Her  various  music  forth,  while  the  whole  quire 
Of  other  birds  flock  round,  and  all  admire ! 
But  who  rewards  her  }  will  the  ravenous  kite 
Part  with  her  prey  to  pay  for  her  delight. 
Or  will  the  foolish,  painted,  prattling  jay 
(Now  turn'd  a  hearer)  to  requite  her  play 
Lend  her  a  straw  .-*  or  any  of  the  rest 
Fetch  her  a  feather  when  she  builds  her  nest  ? 
Yet  sings  she  ne'er  the  less,  till  every  den 
Do  catch  at  her  last  notes.     And  shall  I  then 
His  fortunes,  Damon,  'bove  my  own  commend, 
Who  can  more  cheese  into  the  market  send  ? 


AN  ECLOGUE  TO  MASTER  JONSON.  175 

Clowns  for  posterity  may  cark  and  care, 
That  cannot  outlive  death  but  in  an  heir ! 
By  more  than  wealth  we  propagate  our  names, 
That  trust  not  to  successions,  but  our  fames. 
Let  hidebound  churls  yoke  the  laborious  ox, 
Milk  hundred  goats,  and  shear  a  thousand  flocks. 
Plant  gainful  orchards,  and  in  silver  shine, 
Thou  of  all  fruits  shouldst  only  prune  the  vine, 
Whose  fruit,  being  tasted,  might  erect  thy  brain 
To  teach  some  ravishing,  high,  and  lofty  strain  ; 
The  double  birth  of  Bacchus  to  express, 
First  in  the  grape,  the  second  in  the  press. 
And  therefore  tell  me,  boy,  what  rs't  can  move 
Thy  mind,  once  fixed  on  the  Muses'  love  .'* 

Damon. 
When  I  contented  liv'd  by  Cham's  fair  streams, 
Without  desire  to  see  the  prouder  Thames, 
I  had  no  flock  to  care  for,  but  could  sit 
Under  a  willow  covert,  and  repeat 
Those  deep  and  learned  lays,  on  every  part 
Grounded  on  judgment,  subtlety,  and  art. 
That  the  great  tutor  to  the  greatest  king. 
The  shepherd  of  Stagira  us'd  to  sing — 
The  shepherd  of  Stagira,  that  unfolds 
All  Nature's  closet,  shows  whate'er  it  holds  : 
The  matter,  form,  sense,  motion,  place,  and  measure 
Of  everything  contain'd  in  her  vast  treasure. 
Ah,  Tityrus !   I  would  with  all  my  heart, 
Even  with  the  best  of  my  carv'd  mazers  part 


176  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

To  hear  him,  as  he  us'd  divinely  show 
What  'tis  that  paints  the  divers-colour'd  bow  : 
Whence  thunders  are  discharg'd,   whence  the  winds 

stray, 
What  foot  through  heaven  hath  worn  the  Milky  Way. 
And  yet  I  let  this  true  delight  alone, 
Call'd  thence  to  keep  the  flock  of  Corydon. 
Ah  !  woe  is  me,  another's  flock  to  keep  ! 
The  care  is  mine  ;  the  master  shears  the  sheep ! 
A  flock  it  was  that  would  not  keep  together  ; 
A  flock  that  had  no  fleece  when  it  came  hither. 
Nor  would  it  learn  to  listen  to  my  lays, 
For  'twas  a  flock  made  up  of  several  strays. 
And  now  I  would  return  to  Cham,  I  hear 
A  desolation  frights  the  Muses  there. 
With  rustic  swains  I  mean  to  spend  my  time ; 
Teach  me  there,  father,  to  preserve  my  rhyme. 

Tityrus. 
To-morrow  morning  I  will  counsel  thee. 
Meet  me  at  Faunus'  beech  ;  for  now  you  see 
How  larger  shadows  from  the  mountains  fall. 
And  Corydon  doth  Damon,  Damon  call. 

Damon. 
'Tis  time  my  flock  were  in  the  fold, 
More  than  high  time.     Did  you  not  erst  behold 
How  Hesperus  above  yon  clouds  appear  d, 
Hesperus  leading  forth  his  beauteous  herd  ? 

Thomas  Randolph. 


THE    COUNTRY    INN. 


'The  incognito  of  an  inn  is  one  of  its  striking  privileges — "lord 
of  one's  self,  uncumbered  with  a  name." 


ON   TAKING  ONE'S  EASE 
AT  ONE'S  INN. 

T  N  general,  a  good  thing  spoils  out-of-door  prcs- 
"*■  pects ;  it  should  be  reserved  for  Table-talk. 
Lamb  is  for  this  reason,  I  take  it,  the  worst  company 
in  the  world  out  of  doors  ;  because  he  is  the  best 
within.  I  grant,  there  is  one  subject  on  which  it  is 
pleasant  to  talk  on  a  journey  ;  and  that  is,  what  one 
shall  have  for  supper  when  we  get  to  our  inn  at  night. 
The  open  air  improves  this  sort  of  conversation  or 
friendly  altercation,  by  setting  a  keener  edge  on 
appetite.  Every  mile  of  the  road  heightens  the  flavour 
of  the  viands  we  expect  at  the  end  of  it.  How  fine 
it  is  to  enter  some  old  town,  walled  and  turreted,  just 
at  approach  of  nightfall,  or  to  come  to  some  strag- 
gling village,  with  the  lights  streaming  through  the 
surrounding  gloom  ;  and  then  after  enquiring  for  the 
best  entertainment  that  the  place  affords,  to  '  take  one's 
ease  at  one's  inn  ! '     These  eventful  moments  in  our 


i82  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

lives'  history  are  too  precious,  too  full  of  solid,  heart- 
felt happiness  to  be  frittered  and  dribbled  away  in 
imperfect  sympathy.  I  would  have  them  all  to 
myself,  and  drain  them  to  the  last  drop  :  they  will 
do  to  talk  of  or  to  write  about  afterwards.  What  a 
delicate  speculation  it  is,  after  drinking  whole  goblets 

of  tea, 

*The  cups  that  cheer,  but  not  inebriate,* 

and  letting  the  fumes  ascend  into  the  brain,  to  sit 
considering  what  we  shall  have  for  supper — eggs  and 
a  rasher,  a  rabbit  smothered  in  onions,  or  an  excellent 
veal-cutlet !  Sancho  in  such  a  situation  once  fixed  on 
cow-heel  ;  and  his  choice,  though  he  could  not  help 
it,  is  not  to  be  disparaged.  Then,  in  the  intervals  of 
pictured  scenery  and  Shandean  contemplation,  to 
catch  the  preparation  and  the  stir  in  the  kitchen,  get- 
ting ready  for  the  gentleman  in  the  parlour.     Procul, 

0  procul  este  profani  !  These  hours  are  sacred  to 
silence  and  to  musing,  to  be  treasured  up  in  the 
memory,  and  to  feed  the  source  of  smiling  thoughts 
hereafter.  I  would  not  waste  them  in  idle  talk  ;  or 
if  I  must  have  the  integrity  of  fancy  broken  in  upon, 

1  would  rather  it  were  by  a  stranger  than  a  friend. 
A  stranger  takes  his  hue  and  character  from  the  time 
and  place  ;  he  is  a  part  of  the  furniture  and  costume 
of  an  inn.  If  he  is  a  Quaker,  or  from  the  West 
Riding  of  Yorkshire,  so  much  the  better.  I  do  not 
even  try  to  sympathise  with  him,  and  he  breaks  no 
squares.        How    I    love    to    see    the    camps    of    the 


ON    TAKING    one's    EASE.        183 

gypsies,  and  to  sigh  my  soul  into  that  sort  of  life. 
If  I  express  this  feeling  to  another,  he  may  qualify 
and  spoil  it  with  some  objection.  I  associate  nothing 
with  my  travelling  companion  but  present  objects  and 
passing  events.  In  his  ignorance  of  me  and  my 
affairs,  I  in  a  manner  forget  myself.  But  a  friend 
reminds  one  of  other  things,  rips  up  old  grievances, 
and  destroys  the  abstraction  of  the  scene.  He 
comes  in  ungraciously  between  us  and  our  imaginary 
character.  Something  is  dropped  in  the  course  of 
conversation  that  gives  a  hint  of  your  profession  and 
pursuits  ;  or  from  having  some  one  with  you  that 
knows  the  less  sublime  portions  of  your  history,  it 
seems  that  other  people  do.  You  are  no  longer  a 
citizen  of  the  world ;  but  your  *  unhoused  free  condi- 
tion is  put  into  circumspection  and  confine.'  The 
incognito  of  an  inn  is  one  of  its  striking  privileges 
— *  lord  of  one's  self,  uncumbered  with  a  name.'  Oh  ! 
it  is  great  to  shake  off  the  trammels  of  the  world  and 
of  public  opinion — to  lose  our  importunate,  torment- 
ing, everlasting  personal  identity  in  the  elements  of 
nature,  and  become  the  creature  of  the  moment,  clear 
of  all  ties — to  hold  to  the  universe  only  by  a  dish  of 
sweetbreads,  and  to  owe  nothinof  but  the  score  of  the 
evening — and  no  longer  seeking  for  applause  and 
meeting  with  contempt,  to  be  known  by  no  other 
title  than  the  Gentleman  in  the  parlour !  One  may 
take  one's  choice  of  all  characters  in  this  romantic 
state  of  uncertainty  as  to  one's  real  pretensions,  and 


i84  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

become  indefinitely  respectable  and  negatively  right- 
worshipful.  We  baffle  prejudice  and  disappoint  con- 
jecture ;  and  from  being  so  to  others,  begin  to  be 
objects  of  curiosity  and  wonder  even  to  ourselves. 
We  are  no  more  those  hackneyed  common-places 
that  we  appear  in  the  world ;  an  inn  restores  us  to 
the  level  of  nature,  and  quits  scores  with  society ! 

William  Hazlitt, 


UNDER   THE    MOONBEAMS, 


*  I  could  spend  whole  days  and  moonlight  nights  in  teeding  upon 
a  lovely  prospect.' 


THE   PASSION   FOR  LAND- 
SCAPE   DRAWING. 

To  the  Rev.  John  Newton. 

Dear  Sir,  Olney,  May  3,  1780. 

'V^OU  indulge  me  in  such  a  variety  of  subjects,  and 
allow  me  such  a  latitude  of  excursion  in  this 
scribbling  employment,  that  I  have  no  excuse  for 
silence.  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  swallowing 
such  boluses  as  I  send  you,  for  the  sake  of  my  gild- 
ing, and  verily  believe  I  am  the  only  man  alive  from 
whom  they  would  be  welcome  to  a  palate  like  yours. 
I  wish  I  could  make  them  more  splendid  than  they 
are,  more  alluring  to  the  eye,  at  least,  if  not  more 
pleasing  to  the  taste ;  but  my  leaf  gold  is  tarnished, 
and  has  received  such  a  tinge  from  the  vapours  that 
are  ever  brooding  over  my  mind,  that  I  think  it  no 
small  proof  of  your  partiality  to  me,  that  you  will 
read  my  letters.     I  am  not  fond  of  long-winded  meta- 


I90  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

phors  ;  I  have  always  observed  that  they  halt  at  the 
latter  end  of  their  progress,  and  so  do  mine.  I  deal 
much  in  ink  indeed,  but  not  such  ink  as  is  employed 
by  poets  and  writers  of  essays.  Mine  is  a  harmless 
fluid,  and  guilty  of  no  deceptions  but  such  as  may 
prevail  without  the  least  injury  to  the  person  imposed 
on.  I  draw  mountains,  valleys,  woods,  and  streams, 
and  ducks  and  dab-chicks.  I  admire  them  myself,  and 
Mrs.  Unwin  admires  them  ;  and  her  praise,  and  my 
praise  put  together,  are  fame  enough  for  me.  Oh ! 
I  could  spend  whole  days  and  moonlight  nights  in 
feeding  upon  a  lovely  prospect.  My  eyes  drink  the 
rivers  as  they  flow.  If  every  human  being  upon  earth 
could  think  for  one  quarter  of  an  hour  as  I  have  done 
for  many  years,  there  might  perhaps  be  many  miser- 
able men  among  them,  but  not  an  unawakened  one 
would  be  found  from  the  arctic  to  the  antarctic  circle. 
At  present,  the  difference  between  them  and  me  is 
greatly  to  their  advantage.  I  delight  in  baubles,  and 
know  them  to  be  so ;  for  rested  in,  and  viewed  with- 
out a  reference  to  their  Author,  what  is  the  earth, 
what  are  the  planets,  what  is  the  sun  itself  but  a 
bauble  ?  Better  for  a  man  never  to  have  seen  them, 
or  to  see  them  with  the  eyes  of  a  brute,  stupid  and 
unconscious  of  what  he  beholds,  than  not  to  be  able 
to  say,  '  The  Maker  of  all  these  wonders  is  my 
Friend ! '  Their  eyes  have  never  been  opened  to 
see  that  they  are  trifles ;  mine  have  been,  and  will 
be  till   they  are  closed  for  ever.     They  think  a  fine 


PASSION    FOR    LANDSCAPE.       191 

estate,  a  large  conservatory,  a  hothouse  rich  as  a 
West  Indian  garden,  things  of  consequence;  visit 
them  with  pleasure,  and  muse  upon  them  with  ten 
times  more.  I  am  pleased  with  a  frame  of  four 
lights,  doubtful  whether  the  few  pines  it  contains 
will  ever  be  worth  a  farthing ;  amuse  myself  with  a 
greenhouse  which  Lord  Bute's  gardener  could  take 
upon  his  back  and  walk  away  ;  and  when  I  have  paid 
it  the  accustomed  visit,  and  watered  it,  and  given  it 
air,  I  say  to  myself — 'This  is  not  mine,  it  is  a  play- 
thing lent  me  for  the  present ;  I  must  leave  it  soon.' 

William  Cowper. 


THE   VILLAGE    CHURCH. 


o 


'The  present  building  has  no  pretensions  to  antiquity,  and  is 
as  I  suppose,  of  no  earUer  date  than  the  beginning  of  the  reign  of 
Henry  VII.' 


SELBORNE    CHURCH. 

TC^ROM  the  silence  of  Domesday  respecting  churches, 
^  it  has  been  supposed  that  few  villages  had  any  at 
the  time  when  that  record  was  taken ;  but  Selbome, 
we  see,  enjoyed  the  benefit  of  one :  hence,  we  may 
conclude,  that  this  place  was  in  no  abject  state  even  at 
that  very  distant  period.  How  many  fabrics  have  suc- 
ceeded each  other  since  the  days  of  Radfredrus  the 
presbyter,  we  cannot  pretend  to  say ;  our  business 
leads  us  to  a  description  of  the  present  edifice,  in 
which  we  shall  be  circumstantial. 

Our  church,  which  was  dedicated  to  the  Virgin 
Mary,  consists  of  three  aisles,  and  measures  fifty-four 
feet  in  length,  by  forty-seven  in  breadth,  being  almost 
as  broad  as  it  is  long.  The  present  building  has  no 
pretensions  to  antiquity,  and  is,  as  I  suppose,  of  no 
earlier  date  than  the  beginning  of  the  reign  of  Henry 
VH.  It  is  perfectly  plain  and  unadorned,  without 
painted  glass,  carved  work,  sculpture,  or  tracery.  But 
when  I  say  it  has  no  claim  to  antiquity,  I  would  mean 


198  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

to  be  understood  the  fabric  in  general ;  for  the  pillars, 
which  support  the  roof,  are  undoubtedly  old,  being  of 
that  low,  squat,  thick  order  usually  called  Saxon. 
These,  I  should  imagine,  upheld  the  roof  of  a  former 
church,  which,  falling  into  decay,  was  rebuilt  on  those 
massy  props,  because  their  strength  had  preserved 
them  from  the  injuries  of  time.  Upon  these  rest 
blunt  Gothic  arches,  such  as  prevailed  in  the  reign 
above-mentioned,  and  by  which,  as  a  criterion,  we 
would  prove  the  date  of  the  building. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  south  aisle,  between  the  west 
and  south  doors,  stands  the  font,  which  is  deep  and 
capacious,  and  consists  of  three  massy  round  stones, 
piled  one  on  another,  without  the  least  ornament  or 
sculpture ;  the  cavity  at  the  top  is  lined  with  lead,  and 
has  a  pipe  at  the  bottom  to  convey  off  the  water  after 
the  sacred  ceremony  is  performed. 

The  east  end  of  the  south  aisle  is  called  the  South 
Chancel,  and,  till  within  these  thirty  years,  was  divided 
off  by  old  carved  Gothic  framework  of  timber,  having 
been  a  private  chantry.  In  this  opinion  we  are  more 
confirmed  by  observing  two  Gothic  niches  within  the 
space,  the  one  in  the  east  wall  and  the  other  in  the  south, 
near  which  there  probably  stood  images  and  altars. 

In  the  middle  aisle  there  is  nothing  remarkable  ;  but 
I  remember  when  its  beams  were  hung  with  garlands 
in  honour  of  young  women  of  the  parish,  reputed  to 
have  died  virgins ;  and  recollect  to  have  seen  the 
clerk's  wife  cutting,  in  white  paper,  the  resemblances  of 


SELBORNE    CHURCH.  199 

gloves,  and  ribbons  to  be  twisted  in  knots  and  roses, 
to  decorate  these  memorials  of  chastity.  In  the  church 
of  Faringdon,  which  is  the  next  parish,  many  garlands 
of  this  sort  still  remain. 

The  north  aisle  is  narrow  and  low,  with  a  sloping 
ceiling,  reaching  within  eight  or  nine  feet  of  the  floor. 
It  had  originally  a  flat  roof,  covered  with  lead,  till 
within  a  century  past,  a  churchwarden  stripping  .off  the 
lead,  in  order,  as  he  said,  to  have  it  mended,  sold  it  to 
a  plumber,  and  ran  away  with  the  money.  This  aisle 
has  no  door,  for  an  obvious  reason  ;  because  the  north 
side  of  the  churchyard,  being  surrounded  by  the  vicar- 
age-garden, affords  no  path  to  that  side  of  the  church. 
Nothing  can  be  more  irregular  than  the  pews  of  this 
church,  which  are  of  all  dimensions  and  heights,  being 
patched  up  according  to  the  fancy  of  the  owners ;  but 
whoever  nicely  examines  them  will  find  that  the 
middle  aisle  had,  on  each  side,  a  regular  row  of  benches 
of  solid  oak,  all  alike,  with  a  low  back-board  to  each. 
These  we  should  not  hesitate  to  say  are  coeval  with 
the  present  church ;  and  especially  as  it  is  to  be 
observed  that,  at  their  ends,  they  are  ornamented 
with  carved,  blunt  Gothic  niches,  exactly  correspon- 
dent to  the  arches  of  the  church,  and  to  a  niche  in 
the  south  wall.  The  fourth  aisle  also  has  a  row  of 
these  benches ;  but  some  are  decayed  through  age, 
and  the  rest  much  disguised  by  modern  alterations. 

We  must  now  proceed  to  the  chancel,  properly  so 
called,  which  seems  to  be  coeval  with  the  church,  and 


200  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

is  in  the  same  plain  unadorned  style,   though  neatly 
kept     This  room  measures  thirty-one  feet  in  length, 
and  sixteen  feet  and  a  half  in  breadth,  and  is  wain- 
scoted all  round,  as  high  as  to  the  bottom  of  the  win- 
dows.    The  space  for  the  communion-table  is  raised 
two  steps  above  the  rest  of  the  floor,  and  railed  in  with 
oaken  balusters.     Here  I  shall  say  somewhat  of  the 
windows  of  the  chancel  in  particular,  and  of  the  whole 
fabric   in   general.     They  are  mostly  of  that   simple 
and  unadorned  sort  called  Lancet,  some  single,  some 
double,  and  some  in  triplets.     At  the  east  end  of  the 
chancel  are  two  of  a  moderate  size,  near  each  other ; 
and  in  the  north  wall  two  very  distant   small  ones, 
unequal  in  length  and  height :  and  in  the  south  wall 
are  two,  one  on  each  side  of  the  chancel  door,  that 
are  broad  and  squat,  and  of  a  different  order.     At  the 
east  end  of  the  south  aisle  of  the  church  there  is  a  large 
lancet-window  in  a  triplet ;  and  two  very  small,  narrow, 
single  ones  in  the  south  wall,  and  a  broad,  squat  win- 
dow beside,  and  a  double  lancet  one  in  the  west  end  ; 
so  that  the  appearance  is  very  irregular.     In  the  north 
aisle  are  two  windows,   made  shorter  when  the  roof 
was  sloped  ;   and  in  the  north  transept  a  large  triple 
window,  shortened  at  the  time  of  a  repair  in   1721  : 
when  over  it  was  opened  a  round  one  of  considerable 
size,  which  affords  an  agreeable  light,  and  renders  that 
chantry  the  most  cheerful  part  of  the  edifice. 

Gilbert  White. 


THE   WATERING-PLACE. 


'And  surely  me  thinketh  we  cannot  better  bestow  our  time  on 
the  Sea,  then  in  aduise  how  to  behaue  our  selues  when  we  come 
to  ye  shore.' 


FOR    TRAVELLERS. 

T^  Vphiies  hauing  gotten  all  things  necessary  for  his 
^^  voyage  into  England,  accompanied  onelye  with 
PhilautuSy  tooke  shipping  the  first  of  December,  1579, 
by  our  English  Computation :  Who  as  one  resolued 
to  see  that  with  his  eies,  which  he  had  oftentimes 
heard  with  his  eares,  began  to  vse  this  perswasion  to 
his  friend  Philautus,  aswell  to  counsell  him  how  he 
should  behaue  him-selfe  in  England,  as  to  comfort  him 
beeing  nowe  on  the  Seas. 

As  I  haue  found  thee  willing  to  be  a  fellow  in  my 
trauell,  so  would  I  haue  thee  ready  to  be  a  follower 
of  my  counsell :  in  the  one  shalt  thou  shew  thy  good 
will,  in  the  other  manifest  thy  wisdome.  Wee  are  now 
say  ling  into  an  Hand  of  smal  compasse  as  I  gesse  by 
their  Maps,  but  of  great  ciuility  as  I  hear  by  their 
man[n]ers,  which  if  it  be  so,  it  behooueth  vs  to  be 
more  inquisitiue  of  their  conditions,  then  of  their  coun- 
trey :  and  more  carefull  to  marke  the  natures  of  their 
men,  then  curious  to  note  the  situation  of  the  place. 


2o6  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

And  surely  me  thinketh  we  cannot  better  bestow  our 
time  on  the  Sea,  then  in  aduise  how  to  behaue  our 
selues  when  we  come  to  ye  shore  :  for  greater  daun- 
ger  is  ther  to  ariue  in  a  straunge  countrey  where  the 
inhabitants  be  polHtique,  then  to  be  tossed  with  the 
troublesome  waues,  where  the  Mariners  be  vnskilfull. 
Fortune  guideth  men  in  the  rough  Sea,  but  Wisdome 
ruleth  them  in  a  straunge  land. 

If  Trauailers  in  this  our  age  were  as  warye  of 
their  conditions,  as  they  be  venterous  of  their  bodyes, 
or  as  willing  to  reape  profit  by  their  paines,  as  they 
are  to  endure  perill  for  their  pleasure,  they  would 
either  prefer  their  own  soyle  before  a  straunge  Land, 
or  good  counsell  before  their  owne  conceyte.  But  as 
the  young  sch©ller  in  Athens  went  to  heare  Demosthenes 
eloquence  at  Corinth,  and  was  entangled  with  Lais 
beautie,  so  most  of  our  trauailers  which  pretend  to 
get  a  smacke  of  straunge  language  to  sharpen  their 
wits,  are  infected  with  vanity  by  [in]  following  their 
wils.  Daunger  and  delight  growe  both  vppon  one 
stalke,  the  Rose  and  the  Canker  in  one  bud,  white 
and  blacke  are  commonly  in  one  border.  Seeing 
then  my  good  Philautus,  that  we  are  not  to  conquer 
wilde  beasts  by  fight,  but  to  confer  with  wise  men 
by  pollicie  :  We  ought  to  take  greater  heede  that 
we  be  not  intrapped  in  follye,  then  feare  to  bee 
subdued  by  force.  And  heere  by  the  way  it  shall 
not  be  amisse,  aswell  to  driue  away  the  tediousnesse 
of   time,    as    to    delight    our    selues    with    talke,    to 


FOR    TRAVELLERS.  207 

rehearse  an  olde  treatise  of  an  auncient  Hermitte, 
who  meeting  with  a  pylgrime  at  his  Cell,  vttered  a 
straunge  and  delightfull  tale,  which  if  thou  Philautus 
art  disposed  to  heare,  and  these  present  attentiue 
to  haue,  I  will  spende  some  time  about  it,  knowing 
it  both  fit  for  vs  that  be  trauailers  to  leame  wit, 
and  not  vnfit  for  these  that  be  Merchaunts  to  get 
wealth. 

Philautus  although  the  stumpes  of  loue  so  sticked 
in  his  mind,  that  he  rather  wished  to  heare  an  Eelegie 
in  Ouid,  then  a  tale  of  an  Hermit :  yet  was  hee  wil- 
ling to  lend  his  eare  to  his  friende,  who  had  left  his 
heart  with  his  Lady,  for  you  shal  vnderstand  that 
Philautus  hauing  read  the  Cooling  Carde  which 
Euphues  sent  him,  sought  rather  to  aunswere  it,  then 
allowe  it  And  I  doubt  not  but  if  Philautus  fall 
into  his  olde  vaine  in  England,  you  shall  heare  of 
his  new  deuice  in  Italy.  And  although  fome  shall 
•thinke  it  impertinent  to  the  historie,  they  shall  not 
finde  it  repugnant,  no  more  then  in  one  nosegay  to 
set  two  flowers,  or  in  one  counterfaite  two  coulours, 
which  bringeth  more  delight,  then  disliking. 

Philauttis  aunswered  Euphues  in  this  manner. 

A  ^  Y  good  Euphues,  I  am  as  willing  to  heare  thy 
^^^  tale,  as  I  am  to  be  pertaker  of  thy  trauaile, 
yet  I  knowe  not  howe  it  commeth  to  passe,  that  my 
eyes  are  eyther  heauy  against  foule  weather,  or  my 
head  so  drowsie  against  some  ill  newes,  that  this  tale 


2o8  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

shall  come  in  good  time  to  bring  me  a  sleepe,  and 
then  shall  I  get  no  harme  by  the  Hermit,  though  I 
get  no  good. 

John  Lyly. 


THE  STEPPING-STONES. 


'  Moist,  bright  and  green  the  landscape  laughs  around  ; 
Full  swell  the  woods ;  their  very  music  wakes, 
Mixed  in  wild  concert,  with  the  warbling  brooks 
Increased.'  .   .  . 


APRIL  WEATHER. 

T)E  patient,  swains  ;  these  cruel-seeming  winds 

Blow  not  in  vain.    Far  hence  they  keep  repress'd 
Those  deepening  clouds  on  clouds,  surcharg'd  with  rain, 
That  o'er  the  vast  Atlantic  hither  borne, 
In  endless  train,  would  quench  the  summer  blaze. 
And,  cheerless,  drown  the  crude  unripen'd  year. 

The  north-east  spends  his  rage  ;  he  now  shut  up 
Within  his  iron  cave,  th'  effusive  south 
Warms  the  wide  air,  and  o'er  the  void  of  heaven 
Breathes  the  big  clouds  with  vernal  showers  distent. 
At  first  a  dusky  wreath  they  seem  to  rise. 
Scarce  staining  ether  ;  but  by  swift  degrees. 
In  heaps  on  heaps  the  doubling  vapour  sails 
Along  the  loaded  sky,  and  mingling  deep 
Sits  on  th'  horizon  round  a  settled  gloom  : 
Not  such  as  wintry  storms  on  mortals  shed, 
Oppressing  life  ;  but  lovely,  gentle,  kind. 
And  full  of  every  hope  and  every  joy. 
The  wish  of  Nature.     Gradual  sinks  the  breeze 


214  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

Into  a  perfect  calm  ;  that  not  a  breath 

Is  heard  to  quiver  through  the  closing  woods, 

Or  rustling  turn  the  many  twinkling  leaves 

Of  aspin  tall.     Th'  uncurling  floods,  diffus'd 

In  glassy  breadth,  seem  through  delusive  lapse 

Forgetful  of  their  course.     'Tis  silence  all, 

And  pleasing  expectation.     Herds  and  flocks 

Drop  the  dry  sprig,  and  mute-imploring  eye 

The  falling  verdure.     Hush'd  in  short  suspense, 

The  plumy  people  streak  their  wings  with  oil, 

To  throw  the  lucid  moisture  trickling  off; 

And  wait  th'  approaching  sign  to  strike,  at  once. 

Into  the  general  choir.     Even  mountains,  vales, 

And  forests  seem,  impatient,  to  demand 

The  promis'd  sweetness.     Man  superior  walks 

Amid  the  glad  creation,  musing  praise. 

And  looking  lively  gratitude.     At  last. 

The  clouds  consign  their  treasures  to  the  fields ; 

And,  softly  shaking  on  the  dimpled  pool 

Prelusive  drops,  let  all  their  moisture  flow, 

In  large  effusion,  o'er  the  freshen'd  world. 

The  stealing  shower  is  scarce  to  patter  heard, 

By  such  as  wander  through  the  forest  walks. 

Beneath  the  umbrageous  multitude  of  leaves. 

But  who  can  hold  the  shade,  while  Heaven  descends 

In  universal  bounty,  shedding  herbs. 

And  fruits,  and  flowers,  on  Nature's  ample  lap  .'* 

Swift  fancy  fir'd  anticipates  their  growth  : 

And,  while  the  milky  nutriment  distils, 


APRIL    WEATHER.  215 

Beholds  the  kindling  country  colour  round. 

Thus  all  day  long  the  full-distended  clouds 
Indulge  their  genial  stores,  and  well-shower'd  earth 
Is  deep  enrich'd  with  vegetable  life  ; 
Till,  in  the  western  sky,  the  downward  sun 
Looks  out,  effulgent,  from  amid  the  flush 
Of  broken  clouds,  gay-shifting  to  his  beam. 
The  rapid  radiance  instantaneous  strikes 
Th'  illumin'd  mountain,  through  the  forest  streams, 
Shakes  on  the  floods,  and  in  a  yellow  mist. 
Far  smoking  o'er  th'  interminable  plain, 
In  twinkling  myriads  lights  the  dewy  gems. 
Moist,  bright,  and  green,  the  landscape  laughs  around. 
Full  swell  the  woods ;  their  very  music  wakes, 
Mix'd  in  wild  concert  with  the  warblingf  brooks 
Increas'd,  the  distant  bleatings  of  the  hills. 
And  hollow  lows  responsive  from  the  vales. 
Whence  blending  all  the  sweeten'd  zephyr  springs. 
Mean  time  refracted  from  yon  eastern  cloud. 
Bestriding  earth,  the  grand  ethereal  bow 
Shoots  up  immense ;  and  every  hue  unfolds, 
In  fair  proportion  running  from  the  red. 
To  where  the  violet  fades  into  the  sky. 
Here,  awful  Newton,  the  dissolving  clouds 
Form,  fronting  on  the  sun,  thy  show'ry  prism  ; 
And  to  the  sage-instructed  eye  unfold 
The  various  twine  of  light  by  thee  disclos  d 
From  the  white  mingling  maze.     Not  so  the  boy  ; 
He  wondering  views  the  bright  enchantment  bend. 


2i6  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

Delightful  o'er  the  radiant  fields,  and  runs 
To  catch  the  falling  glory  ;  but  amaz'd 
Beholds  th'  amusive  arch  before  him  fly, 
Then  vanish  quite  away.     Still  night  succeeds, 
A  softened  shade,  and  saturated  earth 
Awaits  the  morning  beam,  to  give  to  light, 
Rais'd  through  ten  thousand  different  plastic  tubes. 
The  balmy  treasures  of  the  former  day. 

James  Thomson. 


THE    MARKET-CART. 


*  The  footpath  faintly  marked,  the  horse-track  wild, 
And  formidable  length  of  plashy  lane, 
(Prized  avenues  ere  others  had  been  shaped 
Or  easier  links  connecting  place  with  place) 
Have  vanished.'  .... 


CHANGES    IN    THE 
COUNTRY. 

*  IT  APPY,'  rejoined  the  Wanderer,  'they  who  gain 

A  panegyric  from  your  generous  tongue  ! 
But,  if  to  these  wayfarers  once  pertain'd 
Aught  of  romantic  interest,  'tis  gone  ; 
Their  purer  service,  in  this  realm  at  least, 
Is  past  for  ever.     An  inventive  age 
Has  wrought,  if  not  with  speed  of  magic,  yet 
To  most  strange  issues.     I  have  lived  to  mark 
A  new  and  unforeseen  creation  rise 
From  out  the  labours  of  a  peaceful  land. 
Wielding  her  potent  enginery  to  frame 
And  to  produce,  with  appetite  as  keen 
As  that  of  war,  which  rest  not  night  or  day, 
Industrious  to  destroy  !     With  fruitless  pains 
Might  one  like  me  now  visit  many  a  tract 
Which,  in  his  youth,  he  trod,  and  trod  again, 
A  lone  pedestrian  with  a  scanty  freight, 


222  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

Wish'd  for,  or  welcome,  wheresoe'er  he  came — 

Among  the  tenantry  of  thorpe  and  vill  ; 

Or  stragghng  burgh,  of  ancient  charter  proud, 

And  dignified  by  battlements  and  towers 

Of  some  stern  castle,  mouldering  on  the  brow 

Of  a  green  hill  or  bank  of  rugged  stream. 

The  footpath  faintly  mark'd,  the  horse-track  wild. 

And  formidable  length  of  plashy  lane. 

(Prized  avenues  ere  others  had  been  shaped 

Or  easier  links  connecting  place  with  place,) 

Have  vanish'd — swallow'd  up  by  stately  roads, 

Easy  and  bold,  that  penetrate  the  gloom 

Of  England's  farthest  glens.     The  earth  has  lent 

Her  waters,  air  her  breezes  ;  and' the  sail 

Of  traffic  glides  with  ceaseless  interchange. 

Glistening  along  the  low  and  woody  dale, 

Or  on  the  naked  mountain's  lofty  side. 

Meanwhile,  at  social  industry's  command. 

How  quick,  how  vast  an  increase  !     From  the  germ 

Of  some  poor  hamlet,  rapidly  produced 

Here  a  huge  town,  continuous  and  compact. 

Hiding  the  face  of  earth  for  leagues — and  there. 

Where  not  a  habitation  stood  before. 

The  abodes  of  men  irregularly  mass'd 

Like  trees  in  forests, — spread  through  spacious  tracts 

O'er  which  the  smoke  of  unremitting  fires 

Hangs  permanent  and  plentiful  as  wreaths 

Of  vapour  glittering  in  the  morning  sirn. 

And,  wheresoe'er  the  traveller  turns  his  steps, 


CHANGES    IN    THE    COUNTRY.   223 

He  sees  the  barren  wilderness  erased, 

Or  disappearing  ;  triumph  that  proclaims 

How  much  the  mild  directress  of  the  plough 

Owes  to  alliance  with  these  new-bom  arts ! 

Hence  is  the  wide  sea  peopled, — and  the  shores 

Of  Britain  are  resorted  to  by  ships 

Freighted  from  every  climate  of  the  world 

With  the  world's  choicest  produce.     Hence  that  sum 

Of  keels  that  rest  within  her  crowded  ports 

Or  ride  at  anchor  in  her  sounds  and  bays  ; 

That  animating  spectacle  of  sails 

Which,  through  her  inland  regions,  to  and  fro 

Pass  with  the  respirations  of  the  tide. 

Perpetual,  multitudinous!     Finally, 

Hence  a  dread  arm  of  floating  power,  a  voice 

Of  thunder,  daunting  those  who  would  approach 

With  hostile  purposes  the  blessed  isle. 

Truth's  consecrated  residence,  the  seat 

Impregnable  of  liberty  and  peace. 

*  And  yet,  O  happy  pastor  of  a  flock 
Faithfully  watch'd,  and,  by  that  loving  care 
And  Heaven's  good  providence,,  preserved  from  taint ! 
With  you  I  grieve,  when  on  the  darker  side 
Of  this  great  change  I  look  ;  and  there  behold, 
Through  strong  temptation  of  those  gainful  arts. 
Such  outrage  done  to  nature  as  compels 
The  indignant  power  to  justify  herself; 
Yea,  to  avenge  her  violated  rights, 


224  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

For  England's  bane.    When  soothing  darkness  spreads 

O'er  hill  and  vale,'  the  Wanderer  thus  express'd 

His  recollections,  'and  the  punctual  stars. 

While  all  things  else  are  gathering  to  their  homes. 

Advance,  and  in  the  firmament  of  heaven 

Glitter — but  undisturbing,  undisturb'd, 

As  if  their  silent  company  were  charged 

With  peaceful  admonitions  for  the  heart 

Of  all-beholding  man,  earth's  thoughtful  lord, 

Then  in  full  many  a  region,  once  like  this 

The  assured  domain  of  calm  simplicity 

And  pensive  quiet,  an  unnatural  light, 

Prepared  for  never-resting  labour's  eyes, 

Breaks  from  a  many-window'd  fabric  huge  : 

And  at  the  appointed  hour  a  bell  is  heard, — 

Of  harsher  import  than  the  curfew-knoll 

That  spake  the  Norman  conqueror's  stern  behest, 

A  local  summons  to  unceasing  toil. 

William   Wordsworlh. 


THE    FERRY-BOAT. 


'At  the  Ferry. 


THE  SCHOLAR    GIPSY. 

QCREEN'D  is  this  nook  o'er  the  high,  half- reaped 

*^     field, 

And  here  till  sundown,  shepherd !  will  I  be. 

Through  the  thick  com  the  scarlet  poppies  peep, 

And  round  green  roots  and  yellowing  stalks  I  see 

Pale  blue  convolvulus  in  tendrils  creep ; 

And  air-swept  lindens  yield 

Their  scent,  and  rustle  down  their  perfumed  showers 

Of  bloom  on  the  bent  grass  where  I  am  laid. 

And  bower  me  from  the  August-sun  with  shade  ; 

And  the  eye  travels  down  to  Oxford's  towers. 

And  near  me  on  the  grass  lies  Glanvil's  book — 

Come  let  me  read  the  oft-read  tale  again ! 

The  story  of  that  Oxford  scholar  poor 

Of  shining  parts  and  quick  inventive  breiin. 

Who,  tired  of  knocking  at  preferment's  door, 

One  summer-morn  forsook 

His  friends,  and  went  to  learn  the  gipsy  lore, 


330  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

And  roam'd  the  world  with  that  wild  brotherhood, 
And  came,  as  most  men  deem'd,  to  little  good, 
But  came  to  Oxford  and  his  friends  no  more. 

But  once,  years  after,  in  the  country  lanes, 

Two  scholars,  whom  at  college  erst  he  knew, 

Met  him,  and  of  his  way  of  life  enquired ; 

Whereat  he  answer'd  that  the  gipsy-crew. 

His  mates,  had  arts  to  rule  as  they  desired 

The  workings  of  men's  brains, 

And  they  can  bind  them  to  what  thoughts  they  will. 

'  And  I,'  he  said,  '  the  secret  of  their  art, 

When  fully  learn'd,  will  to  the  world  impart  ; 

But  it  needs  heaven-sent  moments  for  this  skill.' 

This  said,  he  left  them,  and  returned  no  more. — 
But  rumours  hung  about  the  country-side, 
That  the  lost  scholar  long  was  seen  to  stray. 
Seen  by  rare  glimpses,  pensive  and  tongue-tied, 
In  hat  of  antique  shape,  and  cloak  .of  grey, 
The  same  the  gipsies  wore. 
Shepherds  had  met  him  on  the  Hurst  in  spring ; 
At  some  lone  alehouse  in  the  Berkshire  moors. 
On  the  warm  ingle-bench,  the  smock-frock'd  boors 
Had  found  him  seated  at  their  enterine. 

But,  mid  their  drink  and  clatter,  he  would  fly. 
And  I  myself  seem  half  to  know  thy  looks. 
And  put  the  shepherds,  wanderer !  on  thy  trace 


THE    SCHOLAR    GIPSY.  231 

And  boys  who  in  lone  wheatfields  scare  the  rooks 

I  ask  if  thou  hast  pass'd  their  quiet  place  ; 

Or  in  my  boat  I  lie 

Moor'd  to  the  cool  bank  in  the  summer  heats, 

Mid  wide  grass  meadows  which  the  sunshine  fills, 

And  watch  the  warm,  green-muffled  Cumnor  hills, 

And  wonder  if  thou  haunt'st  their  shy  retreats. 

For  most,  I  know,  thou  lov'st  retired  ground ! 

Thee  at  the  ferry  Oxford  riders  blithe. 

Returning  home  on  summer-nights,  have  met 

Crossing  the  stripling  Thames  at  Bablock-hithe, 

Trailing  in  the  cool  stream  thy  fingers  wet. 

As  the  punt's  rope  chops  round  ; 

And  leaning  backward  in  a  pensive  dream, 

And  fostering  in  thy  lap  a  heap  of  flowers 

Pluck'd  in  shy  fields  and  distant  Wychwood  bowers, 

And  thine  eyes  resting  on  the  moonlit  stream. 

And  then  they  land,  and  thou  art  seen  no  more !  — 

Maidens,  who  from  the  distant  hamlets  come 

To  dance  around  the  Fyfield  elm  in  May, 

Oft  through  the  darkening  fields  have  seen  thee  roam. 

Or  cross  a  stile  into  the  public  way ; 

Oft  thou  hast  given  them  store 

Of  flowers — the  frail-leafed,  white  anemony, 

Dark  bluebells  drench'd  with  dews  of  summer  eves. 

And  purple  orchises  with  spotted  leaves — 

But  none  hath  words  she  can  report  of  thee ! 


232  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

And,  above  Godstow  Bridge,  when  hay-time's  here 
In  June,  and  many  a  scythe  in  sunshine  flames, 
Men  who  through  those  wide  fields  of  breezy  grass, 
Where    black-wing'd    swallows    haunt    the    glittering 

Thames, 
To  bathe  in  the  abandon'd  lasher  pass. 
Have  often  pass'd  thee  near 
Sitting  upon  the  river  bank  o'ergrown  ; 
Mark'd  thine  outlandish  garb,  thy  figure  spare, 
Thy  dark  vague  eyes,  and  soft  abstracted  air — 
But,  when  they  came  from  bathing,  thou  wast  gone ! 

Matthew  Arnold. 


THE  WATER   MILL. 


'  I  loved  the  brimming  wave  that  swam 
Thro'  quiet  meadows  round  the  mill, 
The  sleepy  pool  above  the  dam, 
The  pool  beneath  it  never  still.' 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 


T   LOVED,  and  love  dispell'd  the  fear 

That  I  should  die  an  early  death  : 
For  love  possess'd  the  atmosphere, 

And  fiU'd  the  breast  with  purer  breath. 
My  mother  thought,  What  ails  the  boy  ? 

For  I  was  alter'd,  and  began 
To  move  about  the  house  with  joy, 

And  with  the  certain  step  of  man. 


I  loved  the  brimming  wave  that  swam 
Thro'  quiet  meadows  round  the  mill, 

The  sleepy  pool  above  the  dam. 
The  pool  beneath  it  never  still. 

The  meal-sacks  on  the  whiten'd  floor, 
The  dark  round  of  the  dripping  wheel, 

The  very  air  about  the  door 

Made  misty  with  the  floating  meal. 


238  RUSTIC    LANDSCAPE. 

And  oft  in  ramblings  on  the  wold, 

When  April  nights  began  to  blow, 
And  April's  crescent  glimmer'd  cold, 

I  saw  the  village  lights  below  ; 
I  knew  your  taper  far  away, 

And  full  at  heart  of  trembling  hope, 
From  off  the  wold  I  came,  and  lay 

Upon  the  freshly-flower'd  slope. 

The  deep  brook  groan'd  beneath  the  mill ; 

And  'by  that  lamp,'  I  thought,  'she  sits.' 
The  white  chalk-quarry  from  the  hill 

Gleam'd  to  the  flying  moon  by  fits. 
'  O  that  I  were  beside  her  now ! 

O  will  she  answer  if  I  call  ? 
O  would  she  give  me  vow  for  vow, 

Sweet  Alice,  if  I  told  her  all  ? ' 

Sometimes  I  saw  you  sit  and  spin  ; 

And,  in  the  pauses  of  the  wind. 
Sometimes  I  heard  you  sing  within  ; 

Sometimes  your  shadow  cross'd  the  blind. 
At  last  you  rose  and  moved  the  light, 

And  the  long  shadow  of  the  chair 
Flitted  across  into  the  night. 

And  all  the  casement  darken'd  there. 

Lord  Tennyson. 


LONDON : 

EDMUND    EVANS,    ENGRAVER    AND    PRINTER, 

RACQUET-CT.,    FLEET-ST.,    E.G. 


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